CAROLINE. Yes. And now I am going downstairs to the office. [_She goes out_]. DUPONT. You, Julie, had better go to your room. [_She goes_]. In ten minutes she will be here. MME. DUPONT. Well, I must say if she were my daughter, I should have been at the station long ago. DUPONT. Do you suppose I haven’t wanted to go? MME. DUPONT. Why didn’t you, then? DUPONT. What would people say? Everyone knows me here. On the platform I should have met a dozen people who would have asked me whom I was meeting. And, besides, all things considered, it looks more dignified to receive her here. [_Pondering_] I’ve been asking myself for the last fortnight what I should say when we do meet. MME. DUPONT. Give her a kiss. The rest will come easily. DUPONT. You think I should kiss her? MME. DUPONT. Yes. DUPONT. I think so, too. At the same time we must remember—how shall I put it? Her way of life. It is a difficult question. And then what am I to say to her? Ought I to refer to the past? I must not seem to be forgiving her, of course. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t possibly. On the other hand, since she is coming, I can hardly—Confound it, it’s all extremely awkward. Eh? MME. DUPONT. I can’t advise you. DUPONT [_still thinking it out_] Of course, she is my daughter. Still, I have not seen her for eighteen years. [_Peevishly_] I thought I should never set eyes on her again. In the early days, when she first went away, I was terribly distressed. But that couldn’t last, could it? And then, you understand—Well, well, you must advise me. I have prepared something to say, so as not to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment. If one doesn’t think things out beforehand, one always says too much or too little. So, as I said, I have prepared something. I even wrote it out, but I know it by heart. You can imagine how upset I am with all this. Here it is: ‘My child’—I think it best to say ‘my child.’ ‘Angèle’ would be too familiar and ‘my daughter’ too formal. ‘My child’—[_breaking off_]. And what makes it all the harder is that I’ve no idea what she will say to me. Her letters are very properly expressed, very properly. Still, will she cry? Will she break down? Will she faint? I don’t know. It’s impossible to know. Dear me, I wish the next half hour were over. However: ‘My child, I thank you for having come.’ The fact is I ought to tell you I haven’t given Caroline quite a true account of how things stood. I thought it wiser not. MME. DUPONT. What do you mean? DUPONT. It’s this way. Caroline is the one who could not get her legacy without Angèle’s signature. Not the other way about. MME. DUPONT. But you said—