rings to life, fond joys shared in the past, and
names that are no more. They have almost forgotten that a woman is
present. This reassures me.

But if _he_, when he raises his eyes and sees me, is going to remember I
am a woman and turn to me too civilly and kindle the usual warfare under
the bland honey of the customary phrases! No ... not he ... not this
man. He is so frank and so fine with his two friends; what he says is so
right, and he speaks so directly, without straining for effect. No, not
he.

I offer each of them a trembling cup which they accept without
trembling. Then I quickly withdraw again to the protecting shadow where
my place is hollowed out, to listen to this amazing presence which my
heart scans.

He has spoken to me.

He has spoken to me as never yet a man has spoken: without trying to see
or please me, without any ulterior thoughts, just as he speaks to the
two Loiseaus, probably just as he speaks to himself when alone. It does
happen, then, that from the depths of simple obscurity, unexpectedly,
one hears real words, real naked words from a man?

I answer in the same good faith, I no longer feel any fear or the need
for self-defence. I feel a delight which helps me. And the perfume of
the words that rises from the four of us--it is upon him I bestow it.

From the embers comes a live heat which settles on your cheekbones; your
neck unconsciously stretches towards the red point where the
conversation, which also crackles and sparkles, rests its centre. This
stranger close to me seems like a king leaning over the edge of a
fountain; the light carves his smile and courts that familiar brow....
Is he still a stranger?

But suddenly, what time is it? Twenty past eleven! Time to go. Yes, yes,
I must go.

At the shock which brings me to my feet the whole group breaks up. They
discuss who is to see me home, and I have to refuse three offers at the
same time.

Give me your brotherly hands, I want to go home by myself. And you, turn
upon me those eyes so different from other men's eyes.

As I go down the stairs the fidgety advice repeated a hundred times,
which Remy hurls at me over the banisters every Friday, descends upon my
head. "Don't walk so fast, look where you're going." The last scraps of
warning roll like billiard balls. Remy, old friend, have no fear, go in
again. I am carrying away an immense wonder. It is hurrying me along in
its round. I want to dance, to cry....

Remy's voice