“Finish your sweet, so that they can take your plate away!” said Mme. Verdurin sourly to Saniette, who was lost in thought and had stopped eating. And then, perhaps a little ashamed of her rudeness, “It doesn’t matter; take your time about it; there’s no hurry; I only reminded you because of the others, you know; it keeps the servants back.”

“There is,” began Brichot, with a resonant smack upon every syllable, “a rather curious definition of intelligence by that pleasing old anarchist Fénelon⁠ ⁠…”

“Just listen to this!” Mme. Verdurin rallied Forcheville and the Doctor. “He’s going to give us Fénelon’s definition of intelligence. That’s interesting. It’s not often you get a chance of hearing that!”