“Yes; you know--that poem you said you thought was like _Le Balcon_. I knew it wasn’t any good--or hardly any--and I was furious with Papa for bringing it out. For a minute or two, while Papa was fetching the poem, we were alone together, Uncle Edouard and I, and I felt myself blushing horribly. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. I looked away--so did he, for that matter; he began by rolling a cigarette and lighting it and then to put me at my ease, no doubt, for he certainly saw I was blushing, he got up and went and looked out of the window. He was whistling. Then he suddenly said, ‘I feel far more embarrassed than you do, you know.’ But I think it was just kindness. At last Papa came back again; he handed my verses to Uncle Edouard, and he began to read them. I was in such a state that I think if he had paid me compliments, I should have insulted him. Evidently Papa expected him to--pay me compliments--and as my uncle said nothing, he asked him what he thought of them. But Uncle Edouard answered him, laughing, ‘I can’t speak to him comfortably about them before you.’ Then Papa laughed too and went out. And when we were alone again, he said he thought my verses were very bad, but I liked hearing him say so; and what I liked still more was that suddenly he put his finger down on two lines--the only two I cared for in the whole thing; he looked at me and said, ‘That’s good!’ Wasn’t it nice? And if you only knew the tone in which he said it! I could have hugged him. Then he said my mistake was to start from an idea, and that I didn’t allow myself to be guided sufficiently by the words. I didn’t understand very well at first; but I think I see now what he meant--and that he was right. I’ll explain it to you another time.” “I understand now why you want to go and meet him.” “Oh, all that’s nothing and I don’t know why I’ve told you about it. We said a great deal more to one another.” “At 11.30 did you say? How do you know he’s coming by that train?” “Because he wrote and told Mamma on a post-card; and then I looked it up in the time-table.” “Will you have lunch with him?” “Oh, no. I must be back here by twelve. I shall just have time to shake hands with him. But that’s enough for me.... Oh, one thing more before I go to sleep. When shall I see you again?” “Not for some days. Not before I’ve got something fixed up.” “All the same.... Couldn’t I help you somehow...?” “You? Help me? No. It wouldn’t be fair play. I should feel as if I were cheating. Good-night.” IV VINCENT AND THE COMTE DE PASSAVANT _Mon père était une bête, mais ma mère avait de l’esprit; elle était quiétiste; c’était une petite femme douce qui me disait souvent: Mon fils, vous serez damné. Mais cela ne lui faisait pas de peine._ FONTENELLE.