and at any rate to have someone to speak to.

He took a small table in one of the arbors, from which one can see all
the surrounding country, ordered his lunch and asked to be served at
once. Then some more people arrived and sat down at tables near him and
he felt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were
lunching near him, and he had looked at them two or three times without
seeing them clearly, as one looks at total strangers, but suddenly a
woman's voice sent a shiver through him, which seemed to penetrate to
his very marrow. "George," it had said, "will you carve the chicken?"
And another replied: "Yes, Mamma."

Parent looked up, and he understood, he guessed immediately who those
people were! He should certainly not have known them again. His wife had
grown quite white and very stout, an old, serious, respectable lady, and
she held her head forwards as she ate, for fear of spotting her dress,
although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George had become
a man; he had a slight beard, that unequal and almost colorless beard
which becurls the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white
waistcoat and a single eyeglass, because it looked dandified, no doubt.
Parent looked at him in astonishment! Was that George, his son? No, he
did not know that young man; there could be nothing in common between
them. Limousin had his back to him, and was eating, with his shoulders
rather bent.

Well, all three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and dined
in the country, at well-known restaurants. They had had a calm and
pleasant existence, a family existence in a warm and comfortable house,
filled with all those trifles which make life agreeable, with affection,
with all those tender words which people exchange continually when they