“I scarcely looked at her, I must confess, my child. When her name was announced I was very much astonished. Amélie and Geneviève were with me at the time. I left them in the salon as soon as Mademoiselle Lichtenbach entered. She appeared to me to be tall, and rather good looking. It was, however, her voice, a sweet, charming voice, which impressed me most favourably.” “It is different from her father’s, then,” growled Baradier. “And how long has she been here?” “Half an hour, at least.” “And my sister is with them?” “She could not help staying with them, otherwise it would have been a show of hostility quite out of place. Parents’ enmities, I hope, form no necessary part of children’s inheritances.” “Mother, what you are now saying is contrary to all poetical tradition. Look at Romeo and Juliet. What would become of literature were there no hereditary enmities? They form part and parcel of romantic stock-in-trade. The deuce! We must not diminish it, as it is becoming less and less quite fast enough!” Baradier was not listening to his son; he remained still plunged in his own reflections. At last he murmured— “What has she come for? Why has Lichtenbach permitted her to come?” “Shall I go and ask her?” asked Marcel. “Try to be serious, Marcel,” exclaimed the banker. “This is no matter for jest.” “Oh, I know that well enough. I wonder what it is that upsets you so much? Here is my mother as pale as death, and yourself in a fever-heat, and all because a young girl has come to sympathize with her school-mate! There is something extraordinary going on.” Baradier glanced sideways at his son, and replied in a tone of irritation— “Don’t be such a fool, Marcel. You are incapable of understanding!” Marcel bowed, in mock humility. “Thanks! What do I owe you for that?” But Baradier had no time to give way to his increasing irritation. The door of the salon opened, and Amélie appeared on the threshold. “Mamma, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach would like to say good-bye to you before leaving.” “She seems to be very well bred,” said Marcel, in low tones. “Are you going, mother? I will accompany you. I should like to see what she looks like.” It was in vain that Baradier shouted to his son— “Marcel, stay here; I forbid you!” Already the young man, with a laugh, had slipped behind his mother into the salon. “The young rascal will never have any common sense,” moaned Baradier. And he sat down in the seat his wife had just left, vaguely listening to the sound of voices, which now reached him.