I passed an hour at Madame Sordeville's, and at the end of the hour it seemed to me that I had just arrived. What did I say to her? I have no idea; but I think that I squeezed her hand more than once, and that it did not seem to offend her. I went so far as to put her hand to my lips; she withdrew it, and said in a tone in which there was no trace of severity: "Well, well! what are you doing? what are you thinking about?" "You, nothing but you." "Oh! pardon me if I do not believe you! When one thinks so much of people, one doesn't go whole weeks without seeing them." "When those people have received us with icy coldness, is it not natural that we should hesitate before venturing to present ourselves again?" "Coldness! Ought I to have taken your hand, made you sit down beside me, and talked exclusively with you all the evening?" "Oh! you are laughing at me, madame! You are well aware that, even in a crowd, before witnesses, there are a thousand ways of pouring balm on a suffering, anxious heart; a word, a glance, is enough." "But, monsieur, such words and glances are almost signs of a mutual understanding, and are only exchanged by persons who know each other very well, who are sure of each other." I kissed her hand. That time she made no objection and did not withdraw it; but she faltered: "You are so impulsive! I begin to think that a tête-à-tête with you is very dangerous." "And you will not receive me again?" "I didn't say that." "And you will permit me to love you?" "If I should forbid you to, would you obey me?" "Oh, no!" "Then you see that I may as well permit it." "And I may hope?" "Ah! I didn't say that!" "But you will not say anything!" "I am not so quick as you.--By the way, I did have something to say to you. The other evening, you went away with Madame Dauberny, I believe. Did you escort her home? That would be very natural, as my friend was of such great assistance to you at the Guillardin ball that you should be polite to her." I did not know what to say; I was uncertain whether Frédérique wanted it known that she had invited us to supper. In that uncertainty, it seemed to me more becoming to say nothing about that episode; one never repents having been discreet. "I escorted Madame Dauberny to her door," I replied, after a moment, "and left her there." "Ah! that is strange! It took you a long time to tell me that!" "Because--I had forgotten." "Indeed! Frédérique is so original--so disdainful of conventionalities sometimes, that I had thought----" "What, pray?" "But, no, that would have been contrary to all the proprieties! To be sure, she snaps her fingers at them." "But what was it that you thought?" "Nothing; or, rather, I don't choose to tell you." "You must have seen your friend often since that evening?"