I went to the office only at ten, and we all had tea at eight in the morning. So we could talk undisturbed for two hours. That night I fell asleep with difficulty, feverish and haunted by atrocious dreams; it seemed to me I was losing Maitreyi, that an angel with a white beard was casting me out of this house, that Sen was watching me absently from the terrace. I kept waking, trembling, my forehead cold and damp. It was as if I had committed a great sin.

I found Maitreyi in the office, in a white sari, a gray shawl over her shoulders, writing catalog cards. I wished her good morning, extremely embarrassed, not knowing whether I should kiss her or only smile, or behave as if nothing had happened between us recently. The first meeting after a decisive episode in love has always required from me an effort of attention and imagination. I never know how to behave, what “attitude” to assume; I do not know whether I should be rigid or gentle, I do not know above all what she thinks and how she would like me to be. This indecision makes me hesitate before any gesture, contradict myself, apologize, and, in general, be ridiculous.

Maitreyi, on the contrary, seemed calm, resigned, determined, though the dark circles and pallor of her face betrayed a night of prayer and meditation. (Was it my imagination, or had I heard her voice toward morning, murmuring on the balcony a monotonous prayer, interrupted and resumed several times, then suddenly stilled, as in weeping?)

I sat down across from her, at the same desk, on the chair she had prepared for me beforehand. I began to write mechanically, copying book titles, without lifting my eyes from the cards.

— Did you sleep well? I asked after a few minutes, to break the silence.

— I did not sleep at all, she answered calmly. I thought it was...

…it is time for you to leave our house. That is why I called you…

I tried to interrupt her, but Maitreyi made a desperate, imploring gesture, and I let her speak, growing ever more troubled and surprised by what I was hearing. She spoke while playing with a pen on a sheet of paper, without looking at me, drawing and erasing, writing lines I could not read, making marks and figures I could not understand. This game reminded me of the beginnings of our friendship and those first French lessons. I wanted to interrupt her, to tell her how many mistakes she had made in last night’s note, but I caught myself in the pettiness of this humor and kept silent. There was no time for melancholy reflections. Maitreyi was telling me things I did not know how to believe. They disturbed and surprised me, wounding both my pride and my certainty. Never before had I listened to her speak so much on her own, without changing the subject, without asking me anything,