rious developments. Why on earth had I done so?
Was this, again, only a matter of form? The necessity of that regular introduction, so dear to the bourgeoisie, in a drawing-room where two persons are made acquainted with each other by a third? Or was it not rather that dread—now a part of our life—the instinctive dread of things as they are, the eternal need of playing the part of a besieged fort, which defends itself stubbornly in order to surrender on the best terms possible?
As I came out of the park, a carriage driven at full speed passed by me; I saw a couple of feathers and a good deal of fur. Suddenly the coachman pulled up, and Mme. Wildenhoff jumped out and came towards me.
"Ah! how delighted I am to meet you! You won't get away from me this time. Pray step in: I must make a regular woman of you."
"With pleasure: but what's the matter?"
"You shall hear."
We got in. Mme. Wildenhoff gave the man orders to drive slowly.
"Quite a warm day!" she observed. …
