“Caroline, I must go home and dress. The Marais is some way off, and I still have some business to finish.” “Take care what you are saying, monsieur,” said she, interrupting him. “My mother says that when a man begins to talk about his business, he is ceasing to love.” “Caroline! Am I not here? Have I not stolen this hour from my pitiless--” “Hush!” said she, laying a finger on his mouth. “Don’t you see that I am in jest.” They had now come back to the drawing-room, and Roger’s eye fell on an object brought home that morning by the cabinetmaker. Caroline’s old rosewood embroidery-frame, by which she and her mother had earned their bread when they lived in the Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, had been refitted and polished, and a net dress, of elaborate design, was already stretched upon it. “Well, then, my dear, I shall do some work this evening. As I stitch, I shall fancy myself gone back to those early days when you used to pass by me without a word, but not without a glance; the days when the remembrance of your look kept me awake all night. Oh my dear old frame--the best piece of furniture in my room, though you did not give it me!--You cannot think,” said she, seating herself on Roger’s knees; for he, overcome by irresistible feelings, had dropped into a chair. “Listen.--All I can earn by my work I mean to give to the poor. You have made me rich. How I love that pretty home at Bellefeuille, less because of what it is than because you gave it me! But tell me, Roger, I should like to call myself Caroline de Bellefeuille--can I? You must know: is it legal or permissible?” As she saw a little affirmative grimace--for Roger hated the name of Crochard--Caroline jumped for glee, and clapped her hands. “I feel,” said she, “as if I should more especially belong to you. Usually a woman gives up her own name and takes her husband’s--” An idea forced itself upon her and made her blush. She took Roger’s hand and led him to the open piano.--“Listen,” said she, “I can play my sonata now like an angel!” and her fingers were already running over the ivory keys, when she felt herself seized round the waist. “Caroline, I ought to be far from hence!” “You insist on going? Well, go,” said she, with a pretty pout, but she smiled as she looked at the clock and exclaimed joyfully, “At any rate, I have detained you a quarter of an hour!” “Good-bye, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille,” said he, with the gentle irony of love. She kissed him and saw her lover to the door; when the sound of his steps had died away on the stairs she ran out on to the balcony to see him get into the tilbury, to see him gather up the reins, to catch a parting look, hear the crack of his whip and the sound of his wheels on the stones, watch the handsome horse, the master’s hat, the tiger’s gold lace, and at last to stand gazing long after the dark corner of the street had eclipsed this vision.