At which he seemed surprised. Neither had he told her his name. Since
the night before they had been together, side by side, without knowing
one another.

'My name is Claude.'

And, having looked at her just at that moment, he saw her burst into a
pretty laugh. It was the sudden, merry peal of a big girl, still
scarcely more than a hoyden. She considered this tardy exchange of
names rather droll. Then something else amused her.

'How funny--Claude, Christine--they begin with the same letter.'

They both became silent once more. He was blinking at his work,
growing absorbed in it, and at a loss how to continue the
conversation. He fancied that she was beginning to feel tired and
uncomfortable, and in his fear lest she should stir, he remarked at
random, merely to occupy her thoughts, 'It feels rather warm.'

This time she checked her laughter, her natural gaiety that revived
and burst forth in spite of herself ever since she had felt easier in
mind. Truth to tell, the heat was indeed so oppressive that it seemed
to her as if she were in a bath, with skin moist and pale with the
milky pallor of a camellia.

'Yes, it feels rather warm,' she said, seriously, though mirth was
dancing in her eyes.

Thereupon Claude continued, with a good-natured air: