The following afternoon the manager of the White Star sat at his office desk, a file of papers before him. But his attention wavered, and the nearer the clock hands drew to three, the less grew his concentration upon the file. At last the expected happened. The ground-glass door burst open, and in rushed the immaculate Angélique, her entire person in such dishevelment as the Rue St. Honoré had never seen. Her cap hung by one pin from her black hair, her ruffled swiss apron was under one arm. By the hand she dragged after her the panting André François. His hat was gone, his hair wet, his white sailor suit streaked terra cotta from the clayey mud of the street. His red tie, however, still made a brave flare of color under one ear. "Father," he said in a high, excited voice, "I have been attacked!" Angélique motioned him to be quiet. "Oh, Monsieur Bir-on, oh, sair," she burst out, her round eyes becoming perfect spheres in her excitement, "Monsieur André François have been attack'. I have jus' stop to spik to a gentleman for a so leetle moment--when I look a-r-r-ound and zee thees so ter-r-ible boy make the tackle at Monsieur André François' legs. And nex'--O, _ciel_! I zee Monsieur André François high in the air, and then--splash! _Quelle horreur!_ down in the depths of the mud pud-dle, and thees boy r-r-ool heem r-round an' r-round an' r-r-round. _Barbare!_ _Sauvage!_" Angélique's voice broke, and she buried her face in her abbreviated apron to shut out the memory of a sight so uncivilized. "Father," said André François, trembling with passion, "you will have him punished at once--publicly, so that every one may know that the indignity has been wiped out?" "My boy," said Mr. Biron quietly, placing his hand on his son's shoulder, "I am not lord of a feudal principality. I cannot interfere. You will have to fight your own fights." "But," said André François, angry tears rushing to his eyes, "I cannot fight this peasant--I am a gentleman." And he drew himself up with a jerk, in his drabbled sailor suit, to his full three feet eight. This assumption of dignity was not without discomfort, for the muddy water from his over-long hair dripped down his neck in the back and into his eyes in the front. "Of a certainty," affirmed Angélique with finality, "he is a gentleman. Madame Fouchette so raised heem." "You will have to settle it your own way, Andrew. If you are too good to fight him, and he is not too good to fight you, I do not see what you can do--except run." "I will _not_ run," cried André François, his voice becoming shrill and childish with impotent rage. "I want him punished." "I can do nothing for you," said his father shortly. "You had better go home now to your aunt and have your suit changed." "_Allons_," said Angélique indignantly, and, catching André François by the hand, she started out. At the door she paused long enough to say devoutly, fixing the so unnatural father with a basilisk glance.