For Mme. Molay-Norrois there were no small and great events. She valued equally social obligations and those which concerned the serious affairs of life. Her daughter's defiance shocked her respect for the laws of society, as much as it offended her affection which she now considered to be of no avail. She tried to coax her with gentle insistence which she finally saw would produce no result. After her departure and slight thought of regret concerning the misunderstanding, Elizabeth found joy in again indulging her melancholy. She was soon aroused out of it, however, by her father who did not even knock at the door, and came in quite unceremoniously, dashing, beaming, smiling, his eyes bright, his mustache curled and a rose bud in the buttonhole of his dinner coat. "He, too!" she thought, irritated and cross. He paid no attention to her unfriendly attitude. He never needed to exert himself with Elizabeth, who was always so tractable. "Well, little one?" he asked, playfully. "You have nerves, you have asserted yourself, you have made your mother cry, and she is crying, on my word! She certainly needs very little to make her weep." Curled up in her chair, she did not deign to answer him, and to avoid saying too much, she drew her lips together, so that her mouth was tight shut. Despite his white hair, he was very lively in his evening attire. If he had had any idea of what she was thinking of him, he would have ceased to annoy her. "Are you ill? No ...? Besides, women's nerves! Come along with us. The Vimelles will be so offended if you do not come. Philippe Lagier will amuse you. He is witty and lively. He is rather making love to you, Philippe Lagier, eh. Eh!" "No one is making love to me." She said this in such a peremptory way that he stopped short in his teasing. This little girl was certainly in a bad temper; it was better after all to leave her to sulk as she would. The art of living was fast disappearing when people no longer knew how to conceal their troubles, to bear them with fortitude, in order not to burden their neighbors. Society would soon sanction discussing one's private affairs publicly and wearing a sorrowful expression. And that was the inevitable result of a long period of democracy. So now he only thought of hastening his departure. Happily he found some comfort in seeing his face, still fresh, reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe. "Well, rest, little one, if you are tired." This expression of interest satisfied his paternal dignity, and as soon as he was out in the corridor, he cheered up. Elizabeth, thus disturbed, was trying with difficulty to recover the lost trend of her reflections, when her children, having heard of her return, rushed into the room. They had just come in from their walk, and made a great noise with their hobnailed shoes. They were surprised not to see her in evening dress. "You will be late," declared Marie Louise. "I am dining with you, my darlings."