He had been afraid of Chad and of Maria and of Madame de Vionnet; he had been most of all afraid of Waymarsh, in whose presence, so far as they had mixed together in the light of the town, he had never without somehow paying for it aired either his vocabulary or his accent.

He usually paid for it by meeting immediately afterwards Waymarsh's eye.
Such were the liberties with which his fancy played after he had turned off to the hillside that did really and truly, as well as most amiably, await him beneath the poplars, the hillside that made him feel, for a murmurous couple of hours, how happy had been his thought.

He had the sense of success, of a finer harmony in things; nothing but what had turned out as yet according to his plan.

It most of all came home to him, as he lay on his back on the grass, that Sarah had really gone, that his tension was really relaxed; the peace diffused in these ideas might be delusive, but it hung about him none the less for the time.

It fairly, for half an hour, sent him to sleep; he pulled his straw hat over his eyes--he had bought it the day before with a reminiscence of Waymarsh's--and lost himself anew in Lambinet.