“All of us au complet--that makes eight. And the three of THEM,” said Mr. Probert. Then he added: “Poor creatures!” The fine ironic humane sound of it gave Gaston much pleasure; he passed his hand into his father’s arm. It promised well; it made the intelligent, the tender allowance for the dear little Dossons confronted with a row of fierce French critics, judged by standards they had never even heard of. The meeting of the two parents had not made the problem of their commerce any more clear; but our youth was reminded afresh by his elder’s hinted pity, his breathed charity, of the latent liberality that was really what he had built on. The dear old governor, goodness knew, had prejudices and superstitions, but if they were numerous, and some of them very curious, they were not rigid. He had also such nice inconsistent feelings, such irrepressible indulgences, such humorous deviations, and they would ease everything off. He was in short an old darling, and with an old darling in the long run one was always safe. When they reached the house in the Cours la Reine Mr. Probert said: “I think you told me you’re dining out.” “Yes, with our friends.” “‘Our friends’? Comme vous y allez! Come in and see me then on your return; but not later than half-past ten.” From this the young man saw he had swallowed the dose; if he had found it refuse to go down he would have cried for relief without delay. This reflexion was highly agreeable, for Gaston perfectly knew how little he himself would have enjoyed a struggle. He would have carried it through, but he couldn’t bear to think of that, and the sense of the further arguments he was spared made him feel at peace with all the world. The dinner at the hotel became the gayest of banquets in honour of this state of things, especially as Francie and Delia raved, as they said, about his poppa. “Well, I expected something nice, but he goes far beyond!” Delia declared. “That’s my idea of a real gentleman.” “Ah for that--!” said Gaston. “He’s too sweet for anything. I’m not a bit afraid of him,” Francie contributed. “Why in the world should you be?” “Well, I am of you,” the girl professed. “Much you show it!” her lover returned. “Yes, I am,” she insisted, “at the bottom of all.” “Well, that’s what a lady should be--afraid of her lord and master.” “Well, I don’t know; I’m more afraid than that. You’ll see.” “I wish you were afraid of talking nonsense,” said happy Gaston.