Madame Guibert was waiting in the drawing-room at “Le Maupas,” ready to go out. In one hand she held her umbrella, though the weather was fine and the barometer high, while with the other hand she raised the long crape veil draped over her widow’s bonnet. She sat down for a moment, attempting to wait patiently and, after several glances at the large old-fashioned clock, surmounted by a threatening bronze figure of Vercingetorix the Gaul, she rose again and crossed the room with slow, lagging steps. She seemed to be deep in a study of the quaint old clock-face. She sat down again; this time not on one of the many well-worn armchairs, whose familiar comfort seemed so inviting, but instead upon a cane-seated chair, from which she could rise more promptly and with less effort. Madame Guibert was advanced in years, short and stout, and scant of breath. In her face gentleness was combined with strength. The pale blue eyes, infinitely tender in their expression and full of unshed tears, revealed a timid and loving nature, easily frightened by the outside world, while the square chin and the thick-set, compact figure suggested energy and endurance. The cheeks, still fresh in spite of the years, showed the noble blood in her veins and a well-preserved, vigorous constitution. After hesitating several times she summoned up sufficient courage to open the door and call: “Paule, are you coming? It is time to start.” “Oh, Mother, we have plenty of time,” came the reply in fresh, clear tones. “The clock says seven,” insisted Madame Guibert, wearily. “You know that clock is three quarters of an hour fast.” “But it may have suddenly gone slow. It is very irregular.” The girl’s answer was merely a burst of laughter, completely devoid of any hint of sarcasm. Then she added: “I’m putting on my hat; I’ll be with you in a minute.”