The baron, half conquered, did not wish, however, to engage himself yet A doubt remained beneath the charm which was gradually operating on him. He was going to reply in an evasive manner, when a pressing call from the ladies spared him the trouble. Voices were repeating, amidst silvery laughter: “Monsieur Mouret! Monsieur Mouret!” And as the latter, annoyed at being interrupted, pretended not to hear, Madame de Boves, who had just got up, came as far as the door of the little drawing-room. “You are wanted, Monsieur Mouret. It isn't very gallant of you to bury yourself in a corner to talk over business.” He then decided to go, with an apparent good grace, an air of rapture which astonished the baron. Both rose up and passed into the other drawing-room. “But I am quite at your service, ladies,” said he on entering, a smile on his lips. He was greeted with a burst of triumph. He was obliged to go further forward; the ladies made room for him in their midst The sun had just gone down behind the trees in the gardens, the day was departing, a fine shadow was gradually invading the vast apartment. It was the tender hour of twilight, that minute of discreet voluptuousness in the Parisian houses, between the dying brightness of the street and the lighting of the lamps downstairs. Monsieur de Boves and Vallagnosc, still standing up before a window, threw a shadow on the carpet: whilst, motionless in the last gleam of light which came in by the other window, Monsieur Marty, who had quietly entered, and whom the conversation of these ladies about dress had completely confused, placed his poor profile, a frock-coat, scanty but clean, his face pale and wan from teaching. “Is your sale still fixed for next Monday?” Madame Marty was just asking. “Certainly, madame,” replied Mouret, in a soft, sweet voice, an actor's voice, which he assumed when speaking to women. Henriette then intervened. “We are all going, you know. They say you are preparing wonders.” “Oh! wonders!” murmured he, with an air of modest fatuity. “I simply try to deserve your patronage.” But they pressed him with questions: Madame Bourdelais, Madame Guibal, Blanche even wanted to know. “Come, give us some details,” repeated Madame de Boves, persistently. “You are making us die of curiosity.” And they were surrounding him, when Henriette observed that he had not even taken a cup of tea. It was distressing. Four of them set about serving him, but on condition that he would answer them afterwards. Henriette poured it out, Madame Marty held the cup, whilst Madame de Boves and Madame Bourdelais contended for the honour of sweetening it. Then, when he had declined to sit down, and commenced to drink his tea slowly, standing up in the midst of them, they all approached, imprisoning him in the narrow circle of their skirts; and with their heads raised, their eyes sparkling, they sat there smiling at him.