He is very silent--he sometimes
sits for ten minutes without speaking; I assure you it is n't amusing.
Sometimes he looks at me as if he were going to break out with that
crazy idea to which he treated me the other day. But he says nothing,
and then I see that he is not thinking of me--he is simply thinking of
Blanche. The more he thinks of her the better."
"My dear Bernard," she began on another occasion, "I hope you are not
dying of ennui, etc. Over here things are going so-so. He asked me
yesterday to go with him to the Louvre, and we walked about among the
pictures for half an hour. Mamma thinks it a very strange sort of thing
for me to be doing, and though she delights, of all things, in a good
cause, she is not sure that this cause is good enough to justify the
means. I admit that the means are very singular, and, as far as the
Louvre is concerned, they were not successful. We sat and looked for a
quarter of an hour at the great Venus who has lost her arms, and he said
never a word. I think he does n't know what to say. Before we separated
he asked me if I heard from you. 'Oh, yes,' I said, 'every day.'
'And does he speak of me?' 'Never!' I answered; and I think he looked
disappointed.
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