Now an exchange of love-letters began. He wrote to her every night,
and sometimes he sent her a postcard as well during the day. His
colleagues didn't know what to think of him. He was so fastidious
about his dress and personal appearance, that they suspected him of a
love affair. And he was in love--in love again. He sent her his
photograph, without the spectacles, and she sent him a lock of her
hair.
Their language was simple like a child's, and he wrote on coloured
paper ornamented with little doves. Why shouldn't they? They were a
long way off forty yet, even though the struggle for an existence had
made them feel that they were getting old. He had neglected her during
the last twelvemonth, not so much from indifference as from respect--he
always saw in her the mother of his children.
The tour of inspection was approaching its end. He was conscious of a
certain feeling of apprehension when he thought of their meeting. He
had corresponded with his sweetheart; should he find her in the mother
and housewife? He dreaded a disappointment. He shrank at the thought
of finding her with a kitchen towel in her hand, or the children
clinging to her skirts. Their first meeting must be somewhere else,
and they must meet alone.
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