"Don't you worry about money," said Henry, importantly. "I've had a bit of luck at cards," and he offered his wife a note. Moreover, when he heard the reason for all this commotion of grief, he laughed, said it might have happened to any one, congratulated Sylvia upon her choice of goods, declared it was time she began to study English seriously and vowed that he was the one to be her teacher, yes, by gad, he was, and that to-morrow morning being Sunday they would make a start. Then he began to fondle his wife, which embarrassed Sylvia, but nevertheless because these caresses so plainly delighted her mother, they consoled her for the disaster. So she withdrew to a darker corner of the room and played with the doll she had bought, listening to the conversation between her parents. "Do you love me, Henri?" "Of course I love you." "You know that I would sacrifice the world for you? I've given you everything. If you love me still, then you must love me for myself--myself alone, _mon homme_." "Of course I do." "But I'm growing old," protested Juliette. "There are others younger than I. _Ah, Henri, amour de ma vie_, I'm jealous even of the girls. I want them all out of the house. I hate them now, except ours--ours, _ma poupée_." Sylvia regarding her own doll could not help feeling that this was a most inappropriate name for her father; she wondered why her mother called him that and decided finally that it must be because he was shorter than she was. The evening begun so disastrously ended most cheerfully; when Françoise and Marie arrived back at midnight, they escaped even the mildest rebuke from their mother.