Page 119 - swanns-way

beginning to feel extremely tired.
‘No, no; it is impossible,’ said my uncle, shrugging his
shoulders. ‘He is kept busy at home all day; he has plenty of
work to do. He brings back all the prizes from his school,’
he added in a lower tone, so that I should not hear this false-
hood and interrupt with a contradiction. ‘You can’t tell; he
may turn out a little Victor Hugo, a kind of Vaulabelle, don’t
you know.’
‘Oh, I love artistic people,’ replied the lady in pink; ‘there
is no one like them for understanding women. Them, and
really nice men like yourself. But please forgive my igno-
rance. Who, what is Vaulabelle? Is it those gilt books in the
little glass case in your drawing-room? You know you prom-
ised to lend them to me; I will take great care of them.’
My uncle, who hated lending people books, said noth-
ing, and ushered me out into the hall. Madly in love with
the lady in pink, I covered my old uncle’s tobacco-stained
cheeks with passionate kisses, and while he, awkwardly
enough, gave me to understand (without actually saying)
that he would rather I did not tell my parents about this
visit, I assured him, with tears in my eyes, that his kindness
had made so strong an impression upon me that some day
I would most certainly find a way of expressing my grati-
tude. So strong an impression had it made upon me that two
hours later, after a string of mysterious utterances which did
not strike me as giving my parents a sufficiently clear idea
of the new importance with which I had been invested, I
found it simpler to let them have a full account, omitting
no detail, of the visit I had paid that afternoon. In doing

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