She held out the pages in which she had been writing, and he recognised the Roquevillard Book of the Family. According to old-fashioned custom, the Roquevillards kept one of those common-sense books in which our ancestors used to note down, side by side with the management of their estate, certain important facts of private life, such as marriages and deaths, births and honours, expenses, contracts, etc.--books which evoke the past with the impressiveness of old wills, and teach confidence in the future to any one who can draw inspiration from his forebears’ lives or wants to grow up worthy of them. “I’m bringing it down to date,” added the girl. “Maurice’s return and Hubert’s decoration haven’t been entered in it yet.” Mr. Roquevillard turned over the leaves of this book that bore such patient witness to the energy of his race, not without pride. “Who will keep it up after you, Margaret?” “But I shall go on with it myself, father.” “No, a woman must belong to her new home.” She blushed like a school-girl discovered in some fault. “I’m afraid I shall make a very bad wife,” she said, “for I shall always remain attached to the old home. Everything that goes on here is very dear to me, dwells in my very heart.” He could not keep from murmuring: “Dear child!” “And Maurice,” she replied. “Is he pleased with his new place, my roses and the window? If I were he, I should be enchanted to work near you.” She had a way of following him in his preoccupations and preparing the way for confidences. “It was about Maurice I came to talk with you. We had a discussion together just now. I was perhaps a little quick.” “You, father?” “As a matter of fact, I clashed with him. He left the house in anger, and anger is a bad counsellor. Go and find him, Margaret. You’ll know how to bring him back.” She rose briskly without the slightest hesitation. “Where is he?” “I don’t know. Perhaps at Frasne’s office. Anyway, the town is not large. You’ll run across him. God forbid that you shouldn’t.” “I’ll go there first.” “You understand,” added Mr. Roquevillard quietly, “I couldn’t go myself.” “Oh, no; not you. He isn’t worth it. He’s been too funny for quite a while. You’d almost say he didn’t like us as much as he used to.” Father and daughter looked at each other and understood, but did not pursue the subject further.