“Come in, come in,” repeated Baudu. In a few brief sentences he explained the matter to his wife and daughter. The first was a little woman, eaten up with anaemia, quite white--white hair, white eyes, white lips. Geneviève, in whom her mother's degenerateness appeared stronger still, had the debilitated, colourless appearance of a plant reared in the shade. However, her magnificent black hair, thick and heavy, marvellously vigorous for such a weak, poor soil, gave her a sad charm. “Come in,” said both the women in their turn; “you are welcome.” And they made Denise sit down behind a counter. Pépé immediately jumped up on his sister's lap, whilst Jean leant against some wood-work beside her. Looking round the shop the new-comers began to take courage, their eyes getting used to the obscurity. Now they could see it, with its low and smoky ceiling, oaken counters bright with use, and old-fashioned drawers with strong iron fittings. Bales of goods reached to the beams above; the smell of linen and dyed stuffs--a sharp chemical smell--seemed intensified by the humidity of the floor. At the further end two young men and a young woman were putting away pieces of white flannel. “Perhaps this young gentleman would like to take something?” said Madame Baudu, smiling at Pépé. “No, thanks,” replied Denise, “we had a cup of milk in a café opposite the station.” And as Geneviève looked at the small parcel she had laid down, she added: “I left our box there too.” She blushed, feeling that she ought not to have dropped down on her friends in this way. Even as she was leaving Valognes, she had been full of regrets and fears; that was why she had left the box, and given the children their breakfast. “Come, come,” said Baudu suddenly, “let's come to an understanding. 'Tis true I wrote to you, but that's a year ago, and since then business hasn't been flourishing, I can assure you, my girl.” He stopped, choked with an emotion he did not wish to show. Madame Baudu and Geneviève, with a resigned look, had cast their eyes down. “Oh,” continued he, “it's a crisis which will pass, no doubt, but I have reduced my staff; there are only three here now, and this is not the moment to engage a fourth. In short, my dear girl, I cannot take you as I promised.” Denise listened, and turned very pale. He dwelt upon the subject, adding: “It would do no good, either to you or to me. “All right, uncle,” replied she with a painful effort, “I'll try and manage all the same.”