‘Come, madame! That’s not a very friendly sentiment. You cannot mean what you say. You are overstrung—got nerves.’
‘Nerves? Bien! To-night, I see always M. Lemoine.’
She sank down heavily, her fingers groping for her knitting. The steel needles began to click with mechanical precision.
Quality looked at the clock. It wanted but three minutes to twelve.
The day was near its birth.
At the same moment, madame broke the silence.
‘Courage, m’sieur!’ Her teeth flashed in a smile. ‘We were both wrong. There were no footsteps, after all!’
Her words, vibrant with cheerful sympathy, awoke in Quality a response that was almost electric. Suspicion and fear melted at the warm touch of humanity. The devils that had possessed and tormented him, went out of him, leaving him wrapped in a foretaste of that peace that passeth understanding.
He saw the room dimly, as though through a veil of blue transparency, in a new guise. It was the abode of warmth and comfort—a domestic interior. Madame, smiling over her work, was a type of tranquil femininity.