was not consecrated to her religious duties to her household work. She
used to sew, and mend, and darn, and look after the servant: she had a
mania for tidiness and cleanliness. Her husband thought her a fine
woman, a little odd--"like all women," he used to say--but "like all
women," devoted. On that last point Christophe made certain reservations
_in petto_: such psychology seemed to him too simple; but he told
himself that, after all, it was Braun's affair; and he gave no further
thought to the matter.

They used to sit together after dinner in the evening. Braun and
Christophe would talk. Anna would sit working. On Braun's entreaty,
Christophe had consented to play the piano sometimes: and he would
occasionally play on to a very late hour in the big gloomy room looking
out on to the garden. Braun would go into ecstasies.... Who is there
that does not know the type that has a passionate love for things they
do not understand, or understand all wrong!--(which is why they love
them!)--Christophe did not mind: he had met so many idiots in the course
of his life! But when Braun gave vent to certain mawkish expressions of
enthusiasm, he would stop playing, and go up to his room without a word.
Braun grasped the truth at last, and put a stopper on his reflections.
Besides, his love for music was quickly sated: he could never listen
with any attention for more than a quarter of an hour on end: he would
pick up his paper, or doze off, and leave Christophe in peace. Anna
would sit back in her chair and say nothing: she would have her work in
her lap and seem to be working: but her eyes were always staring and her
hands never moved. Sometimes she would go out without a sound in the
middle of a piece, and be seen no more.

* * * * *