Swann's 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 falsehood 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 ignorance. Who, what is Vaulabelle? Is
it those gilt books in the little glass case in your drawing-room? You
know you promised to lend them to me; I will take great care of them."

My uncle, who hated lending people books, said nothing, 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