The strange thing was that he was speaking the truth, and that the expectation of this rendezvous had excited him. But he spoke in a joking tone and drawling voice that made his words appear false, besides which he was wanting both in assurance and decision. Madame Worms-Clavelin quite thought she would leave the carriage as she had entered it. Assuming a serious and gentle expression, she said in a sympathetic tone: “Thank you, dear M. Cheiral. Put me down here, if you please, and remember me to your mother.” And she held out her hand, a little, stumpy hand clad in an exceedingly dirty glove. But he held it tightly, becoming tender and insistent, full of desire and amour-propre. “I am as muddy as a water spaniel,” she remarked, just as he was about to find that out for himself. While he adhered to his resolve, in spite of the obstacles of circumstances and environment, she showed the most perfect good taste and simplicity. With wonderful tact, she avoided all the unpleasantness arising from an over-prolonged resistance or a too rapid resignation. In like manner she avoided any remark that might reveal either ironical indifference or interested participation. She behaved perfectly. She had no feeling of dislike for the young statesman, who was so innocent at the very moment when he believed himself to be so wicked, and feelings of real regret came over her as she reflected that she might have been more careful in selecting her _lingerie_ for the occasion; she never had been careful enough of that, but of late years her carelessness had become somewhat excessive. Her greatest merit on this occasion was in keeping clear of all emphasis and exaggeration. After a while, Maurice suddenly became quiet, indifferent, even a trifle bored. He talked of things quite foreign to their present situation, and peered through the blurred window-panes at the streets that looked as though the carriage were going along at the bottom of an aquarium; all that could be seen through the rain was the gas-jets, and here and there the glass jars in the windows of the chemists’ shops. “What awful rain!” sighed Madame Worms-Clavelin. “The weather has been dreadful for the last week,” said Maurice Cheiral, “simply rotten. Is it the same in your part of the country?” “We get more rain in our department than in any other in France,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin with charming sweetness. “But there is never any mud on the broad, gravelled garden paths of the Préfecture. Then we country people wear clogs.” “Do you know,” said Cheiral, “that I have never been to your town?” “There are beautiful walks there,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin, “and the surroundings are charming. Do come and see us. My husband would be delighted.” “Does your husband like living there?” “Yes, he likes it because he has been successful there.” In her turn, she tried to see through the clouded panes and to pierce the thick darkness that was full of fugitive glimmers of light.