Every morning Alice Dulaurens said to herself that she would spend the day inducing her parents to give their consent to this marriage of which the thought alone filled her with happiness; and every evening, having said nothing, she waited for the next day. But she soon had to make up her mind, for her friend Paule informed her of the date on which the definite offer was to be made. On the eve of Madame Guibert’s visit she had still said nothing. Feeling anxious, she was late in going to sleep and got up very early, thinking to gain time. The hours sped rapidly, and her love-stricken heart trembled. She watched first her father and then her mother, in order to get one aside to listen to her request, and like all timid people she never found the right moment. “Mamma is alone in her room,” she thought. She ran there but came out quickly, for her mother was busy writing. “It will be better to come back presently,” she said to herself. With some color in her cheeks she started at once to look for her father. “Papa is going round the garden,” she said. But he was talking to the gardener. Thus she found a hundred weak reasons for keeping back her confidence. At last she made up her mind to speak after lunch. “That is the time when one feels best disposed,” she assured herself, to find an excuse for her cowardice. Unhappily for her plans, Madame Orlandi came to lunch. On the stroke of twelve she arrived, carrying her pug Pistache, which she never left behind her, and she began her mild and friendly Italian prattle. “I am not putting you out? You are so kind. I hate lunching by myself. Isabelle and the maid have gone to Lyons to see about her trousseau, you know. A wedding makes such a fuss. My poor head is splitting.” “What a good idea to come to us,” said the extremely bored Madame Dulaurens. And M. Dulaurens gravely agreed: “The preparations for a wedding are certainly very disturbing to the peace of the house. But it is in keeping with social usage that this ceremony should remain in our memories if only on account of all the trouble it gives us.” “You don’t mind the darling lunching with us?” said Madame Orlandi, pointing to the pug as they entered the dining-room. “Certainly--we should never be cruel enough to separate you!” Madame Orlandi seated Pistache at her side and at once made him the object of conversation. “Yesterday my dear little pet had a sad time. We went to see M. Loigny, uncle of that dear Jean Berlier who is such a good friend to my daughter. He lives near Chambéry in a villa, all covered with roses. His house is a scented bower. He has great taste, this old man, but very little politeness. He lives in his garden quite forgetful of mankind and manners. Pistache destroyed a young rose-tree, and the flower-maniac threw him out of the door. I departed in a most dignified way leaving my daughter behind, M. Jean being kind enough to escort her home in the evening, when he made profuse apologies.”