Mme. Swann. “Oh! she will be sorry!” was my greeting, “I can’t think why she isn’t in. She came home just now from a lesson, complaining of the heat, and said she was going out for a little fresh air with another girl.” “I fancy I passed her in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.” “Oh, I don’t think it can have been. Anyhow, don’t mention it to her father; he doesn’t approve of her going out at this time of night. Must you go? Goodbye.” I left her, told my driver to go home the same way, but found no trace of the two walking figures. Where had they been? What were they saying to one another in the darkness so confidentially?