without hesitation. "I shan't use it." When the ladies had half-finished
dinner he returned and joined them, with a formal apology to his wife
for his inconsequence.

The dishes were brought back, but he hardly tasted them; he drank on the
other hand more wine than usual. There was little talk, scarcely a
convivial sound save the occasional expressive appreciative "M-m-m!" of
Madame Clairin over the succulence of some dish. Twice this lady saw her
brother's eyes, fixed on her own over his wineglass, put to her a
question she knew she should have to irritate him later on by not being
able to answer. She replied, for the present at least, by an elevation
of the eyebrows that resembled even to her own humour the vain raising
of an umbrella in anticipation of a storm. M. de Mauves was left alone
to finish his wine; he sat over it for more than an hour and let the
darkness gather about him. At last the servant came in with a letter and
lighted a candle. The letter was a telegram, which M. de Mauves, when he
had read it, burnt at the candle. After five minutes' meditation he
wrote a message on the back of a visiting-card and gave it to the
servant to carry to the office. The man knew quite as much as his master
suspected about the lady to whom the telegram was addressed; but its
contents puzzled him; they consisted of the single word "Impossible." As
the evening passed without her brother's reappearing in the drawing-room
Madame Clairin came to him where he sat by his solitary candle. He took
no notice of her presence for some time, but this affected her as
unexpected indulgence. At last, however, he spoke with a particular
harshness. "Ce jeune mufle has gone home at an hour's notice. What the
devil does it mean?"

Madame Clairin now felt thankful for her umbrella. "It means that I've a
sister-in-law whom I've not the honour to understand."