Conversation in many tongues, unmusically high-pitched, then at once
broke loose, led ever by _la patronne_ at the head of the table. The
big dishes of meat and vegetables were handed round; plates were piled
and smothered; knives and forks were laid between mouthfuls upon
plate-edges, forming a kind of frieze all round the cloth; the gossip
of the village was retailed with harmless gusto. _Dejeuner_ at Les
Glycines was in full swing. When the apples and oranges came round,
most of the governesses took two apiece, slipping one or other into
little black velvet bags they carried on their laps below the table.
Some, it was whispered, put bread there too to keep them company. But
this was probably a libel. Madame Jequier, at any rate, never saw it
done. She looked the other way. 'We all must live,' was her invariable
answer to such foolish stories. 'One cannot sleep if one's supper is
too light.' Like her body, her soul was a bit untidy--careless, that
is, with loose ends. Who would have guessed, for instance, the anxiety
that just now gnawed her very entrails? She was a mixture of shameless
egotism, and of burning zeal for others. There was a touch of grandeur
in her.
At the end of the table, just where the ivy leaves dropped rather low
from their trailing journey across the ceiling, sat Miss Waghorn, her
vigorous old face wrapped, apparently, in many apple skins.
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