He began by staring at his friend whenever he entered the counting-room; then, discouraged by his immovable indifference, which he believed to be wilful and premeditated, covering his face like a mask, he adopted the plan of turning away and fumbling among his papers to avoid those false glances, and keeping his eyes fixed on the garden paths or the interlaced wires of the grating when he spoke to him.

Even his words were confused and distorted, like his glances.

No one could say positively to whom he was talking.
No more friendly smiles, no more reminiscences as they turned over the leaves of the cash-book together.
"This was the year you came to the factory.

Your first increase of pay.
Do you remember?
We dined at Douix's that day.

And then the Cafe des Aveugles in the evening, eh?
What a debauch!" At last Risler noticed the strange coolness that had sprung up between Sigismond and himself.