“No, nothing,” she declared, after her inspection. “That’s because you’re looking too high.” She noticed then that the heavy oak table, large, enough to hold as many briefs as one could possibly desire, had made way for one that was smaller and more elegant, placed so that it had the best of both light and view. “Oh,” she cried, “why do you put yourself back like this?” “Why, to make room for your brother.” “For Maurice? Is he leaving Mr. Frasne’s office?” “Yes. He’s to have a place near the window here. See how autumn is shaking off the plane-tree leaves. I prefer the spring. There’s a Judas tree beneath the turret that’s a bright red then, and plum trees in blossom.” Margaret hardly heard him, and looked quite downcast. “It’s lovely for Maurice, yes,” she said; “but how about you?” “Little girl, don’t you know a young man must have things pleasant round him? See if you can finish arranging that table for me. Put some flowers on it, for instance.” “There’s hardly anything left, father. I’ve nothing but chrysanthemums.” “Let’s, have some chrysanthemums then. One or two, not more, in a long vase. These young doctors of law come back from Paris with a taste for pretty things, and I’ve not the least bit myself. But you have taste and grace for all of us, and you’ll know how to help us keep him.” He smiled, with a little constrained smile that begged approval. He moved nearer to the girl and put his hand on her fine dark chestnut hair, unheeding whether he disarranged it. “You will be leaving us soon, Margaret. Are you glad you’re going to be married?” Instead of replying to him, she leant against her father and began to weep with a heavy heart. She looked like Mr. Roquevillard, though with a different expression of countenance. With a figure rather tall and vigorous, a slightly arched nose, a straight chin, she gave one, like him, an impression of security and loyalty, an impression to which large brown eyes, the eyes of her mother, added a profound sweetness, whereas her father’s eyes, deep-set and small, threw a flame so sharp that one could hardly bear their gaze. He was distressed by her sudden burst of tears. “Why do you cry? Isn’t this marriage all right for you? Raymond Bercy is a good boy, and comes of a good family. He’s finished his medical course, and now is definitely settled here in the city. Have you anything against him? You must not marry him if you don’t love him.” She stifled her sobs long enough to murmur: “Oh, I’ve nothing to reproach him with, except----” “There, there, now, little girl, go on.” She turned admiring eyes upon her father. “Except that he isn’t a man like you.” “You’re absurd, Margaret.” But she began to explain herself further as she grew more calm. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I ought to be happy. Have I not always been happy here? My childhood comes back to me, with all its joys and sunlight. And I feel quite sorrowful at the thought of going away.” He comforted her seriously.