The hours seemed long to him, and as he set out for the Boulevard Malesherbes he was seized with a fear of not finding her, which would force him still to pass the evening alone, as he had passed so many others.

To his query:  “Is the Countess at home?” the servant’s answer, “Yes, Monsieur,” filled him with joy.

He said, with a radiant air:  “It is I again!” as he appeared at the threshold of the smaller drawing-room where the two ladies were working, under the pink shade of a double lamp of English metal, on a high and slender standard.

“What, is it you?  How fortunate!” exclaimed the Countess.

“Well, yes.  I feel very lonely, so I came.”

“How nice of you!”

“You are expecting someone?”

“No—­perhaps—­I never know.”

He had seated himself and now looked scornfully at the gray knitting-work that mother and daughter were swiftly making from heavy wool, working at it with long needles.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Coverlets.”

“For the poor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It is very ugly.”

“It is very warm.”

“Possibly, but it is very ugly, especially in a Louis Fifteenth apartment, where everything else charms the eye.  If not for your poor, you really ought to make your charities more elegant, for the sake of your friends.”

“Oh, heavens, these men!” said the Countess, with a shrug of her shoulders.  “Why, everyone is making this kind of coverlets just now.”

“I know that; I know it only too well!  Once cannot make an evening call now without seeing that frightful gray stuff dragged over the prettiest gowns and the most elegant furniture.  Bad taste seems to be the fashion this spring.”

To judge whether he spoke the truth, the Countess spread out her knitting on a silk-covered chair beside her; then she assented indifferently: 

“Yes, you are right—­it is ugly.”

Then she resumed her work.  Upon the two bent heads fell a stream of light; a rosy radiance from the lamp illumined their hair and complexions, extending to their skirts and their moving fingers.  They watched their work with that attention, light but continuous, given by women to this labor of the fingers which the eye follows without a thought.

At the four corners of the room four other lamps of Chinese porcelain, borne by ancient columns of gilded wood, shed upon the hangings a soft, even light, modified by lace shades thrown over the globes.

Bertin took a very low seat, a dwarf armchair, in which he could barely seat himself, but which he had always preferred when talking with the Countess because it brought him almost at her feet.

“You took a long walk with Nane this afternoon in the park,” said the Countess.

“Yes.  We chatted like old friends.  I like your daughter very much.  She resembles you very strongly.  When she pronounces certain phrases, one would believe that you had left your voice in her mouth.”