There was a fresh silence.
"And it makes you anxious, doesn't it, Monsieur Georges?"
"Yes," he rejoined in the same painful, suffering tone.
Zoe was in no hurry. She folded up some lace and said slowly:
"You're wrong; Madame will manage it all."
And then the conversation ended; they said not another word. Still she
did not leave the room. A long quarter of an hour passed, and she
turned round again without seeming to notice the look of exasperation
overspreading the lad's face, which was already white with the effects
of uncertainty and constraint. He was casting sidelong glances in the
direction of the drawing room.
Maybe Nana was still crying. The other must have grown savage and have
dealt her blows. Thus when Zoe finally took her departure he ran to the
door and once more pressed his ear against it. He was thunderstruck; his
head swam, for he heard a brisk outburst of gaiety, tender, whispering
voices and the smothered giggles of a woman who is being tickled.
Besides, almost directly afterward, Nana conducted Philippe to the
head of the stairs, and there was an exchange of cordial and familiar
phrases.
When Georges again ventured into the drawing room the young woman was
standing before the mirror, looking at herself.
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