THE WINDOWthe huge brown pot in which was the Bœuf enDaube—for her own part she liked her boobies.Paul must sit by her. She had kept a place forhim. Really, she sometimes thought she likedthe boobies best. They did not bother one withtheir dissertations. How much they missed,after all, these very clever men! How dried upthey did become, to be sure. There was some-thing, she thought as he sat down, very charmingabout Paul. His manners were delightful to her,and his sharp cut nose and his bright blue eyes.He was so considerate. Would he tell her—nowthat they were all talking again—what hadhappened?

"We went back to look for Minta’s brooch,"he said, sitting down by her. “We"—that wasenough. She knew from the effort, the rise in hisvoice to surmount a difficult word that it was thefirst time he had said “we". “We" did this,"we" did that. They’ll say that all their lives, shethought, and an exquisite scent of olives and oiland juice rose from the great brown dish asMarthe, with a little flourish, took the cover off.The cook had spent three days over that dish.And she must take great care, Mrs. Ramsaythought, diving into the soft mass, to choose aspecially tender piece for William Bankes. Andshe peered into the dish, with its shiny walls and155
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