Mme. Verdurin’s whole body stiffened, her eyes stared blankly as though she had suddenly been turned into a statue; a device by means of which she might be supposed not to have caught the sound of that unutterable word which seemed to imply that it was possible for people to “pose” in her house, and, therefore, that there were people in the world who “mattered more” than herself.

“Anyhow, if there is nothing in it, I don’t suppose it’s because our friend believes in her virtue. And yet, you never know; he seems to believe in her intelligence. I don’t know whether you heard the way he lectured her the other evening about Vinteuil’s sonata. I am devoted to Odette, but really⁠—to expound theories of aesthetic to her⁠—the man must be a prize idiot.”

“Look here, I won’t have you saying nasty things about Odette,” broke in Mme. Verdurin in her “spoiled child” manner. “She is charming.”