“Machine-made,” she muttered, “rubbishy stuff!” “It was certainly not sewn on very well.” Veronica used always to wear, stuck into the left breast of her morning gown, two needles, threaded one with white cotton, the other with black. Without troubling to sit down, she did her mending standing beside the glass door. She was a stoutish woman, with marked features; as obstinate as himself, but pleasant on the whole and generally smiling, so that a trace of moustache had not hardened her face. “She has her good points,” thought Anthime, as he watched her plying her needle. “I might have married a flirt who would have deceived me, or a minx who would have deserted me, or a chatterbox who would have deaved me, or a goose who would have driven me mad, or a cross-patch like my sister-in-law.” “Thank you,” he said, less grumpily than usual, as Veronica finished her work and departed. * * * * * With his new tie round his neck, Anthime engrossed himself in his work. No voice was raised; there was silence round him--silence in his heart. He had already weighed the blind rats. But what was this? The one-eyed rats were stationary. He went on to weigh the sound pair. Suddenly he started with such violence that his crutch rolled on the ground. Stupefaction! The sound rats ... he weighed them over again--there was no denying it--since yesterday, the sound rats had _gained_ in weight! A ray of light flashed into his mind. “Veronica!” He picked up his crutch and with a tremendous effort rushed to the door. “Veronica!” Once more she came running, anxious to oblige. Then, as he stood in the doorway, he asked solemnly: “Who has been touching my rats?” No answer. Slowly, articulating each word, as if Veronica had ceased to understand the language, he repeated: “Someone has been feeding them while I was out. Was it you, may I ask?” Picking up her courage, she turned towards him, almost aggressively: “You were letting them die of hunger, poor creatures! I haven’t interfered with your experiment in the least; I merely gave them....” But at this he seized her by the sleeve and, limping back to the table, dragged her with him. There he pointed to his tables of records. “Do you see these papers, Madam? For one fortnight I have been noting here my observations on these animals. My colleague Potier is expecting my notes to read to the Académie des Sciences at the sitting of May 17th next. To-day, April 15th, what am I to put down in this row of figures? What _can_ I put down?” And as she uttered not a word, he began scratching on the blank paper with the square end of his forefinger, as if it were a pen, and continued: “On that day Madame Armand-Dubois, the investigator’s wife, listening to the dictates of her tender heart, committed--what am I to call it?--the indiscretion--the blunder--the folly ...?” “No! say I took pity on the poor creatures--victims of an insensate curiosity.” He drew himself up with dignity: