He leaves his straw hat in our care, goes off to get room, takes a run, and jumps; and immediately turns round, triumphant, the four yards cleared.
"Bravo! You are getting on."
"Oh, it'll be a long time before I can jump like you."
He stops short, biting his lip. Too late. We all three redden, and recall that summer's day when, in compliance with a request from Jeannine, I had taken off my coat, and jumped nearly five yards on the sand. To-day? Alas, to-day!
Jeannine points out the croquet lawn to me, in passing.
"And what about tennis?"
"We've given up playing."
I begin to feel slightly tired. Jeannine, who suspects it, slackens her speed again, gracefully and unaffectedly. But it is heart-breaking for me—I who have such a vivid recollection of the rhythm of her usual pace. And had I not seen her at Ballaigues, challenging her brother to race with her, and beating him with ease?
The round is finished. We are going in. André proposes:
"Suppose we take Mr. Dreher to the Observatory?"