He spoke in this way, according to modern usage, so as to avoid inane
compliments and to spare a woman the boredom of listening to one of
those old declarations of love which, containing nothing but what is
vague and undefined, require neither a truthful nor an exact reply.

And profiting by the fact that he had an opportunity of conversing
secretly with Madame des Aubels for a few minutes, he spoke urgently and
to the point. Gilberte, so far as one could judge, was made rather to
awaken desire than to feel it. Nevertheless, she well knew that her fate
was to love, and she followed it willingly and with pleasure. Maurice
did not particularly displease her. She would have preferred him to be
an orphan, for experience had taught her how disappointing it sometimes
is to love the son of the house.

"Will you?" he said by way of conclusion.

She pretended not to understand, and with her little _foie-gras_
sandwich raised half-way to her mouth she looked at Maurice with
wondering eyes.

"Will I _what_?" she asked.

"You know quite well."

Madame des Aubels lowered her eyes, and sipped her tea, for her
prudishness was not quite vanquished. Meanwhile Maurice, taking her
empty cup from her hand, murmured:

"Saturday, five o'clock, 126 Rue de Rome, on the ground-floor, the door
on the right, under the arch. Knock three times."

Madame des Aubels glanced severely and imperturbably at the son of the
house, and with a self-possessed air rejoined the circle of highly
respectable women to whom the Senator Monsieur Le Fol was explaining
how artificial incubators were employed at the agricultural colony at
St. Julienne.

The following Saturday, Maurice, in his ground-floor flat, awaited
Madame des Aubels. He waited her in vain. No light hand came to knock
three times on the door under the arch. And Maurice gave way to
imprecation, inwardly calling the absent one a jade and a hussy. His
fruitless wait, his frustrated desires, rendered him unjust. For Madame
des Aubels in not coming where she had never promised to go hardly
deserved these names; but we judge human actions by the pleasure or pain
they cause us.

Maurice did not put in an appearance in his mother's drawing-room until
a fortnight after the conversation at the tea-table. He came late.
Madame des Aubels had been there for half an hour. He bowed coldly to
her, took a seat some way off, and affected to be listening to the talk.

"Worthily matched," a rich male