"I may say
that she tells me everything. As she has no one else at present, I told
her that she ought to live with him. She makes out that she can't; she
admits, she was immensely attracted by him, at first; but he's always shy
with her, and that makes her shy with him. Besides, she doesn't care for
him in that way, she says; it's an ideal love, 'Platonic,' you know; she's
afraid of rubbing the bloom off--oh, I don't know half the things she
says, how should I? And yet he's exactly the sort of man she wants."
"I beg to differ from you," M. Verdurin courteously interrupted. "I am
only half satisfied with the gentleman. I feel that he 'poses.'"
Mme. Verdurin's whole body stiffened, her eyes stared blankly as though
she had suddenly been turned into a statue; a device by means of which she
might be supposed not to have caught the sound of that unutterable word
which seemed to imply that it was possible for people to 'pose' in her
house, and, therefore, that there were people in the world who 'mattered
more' than herself.
"Anyhow, if there is nothing in it, I don't suppose it's because our
friend believes in her virtue.
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