Thérèse opened the door of the drawing-room. Mme. Chambannes, in a black dress, black gloves and a black hat, rose slowly. Each made a ceremonious salute, from the back of the neck, with an accompaniment of watching looks and glances which already felt each other in the semi-anticipation of a contest. Thérèse opened the door of the drawing-room, to take a seat. Mme. Chambannes murmured hesitatingly! "I wished to tell M. Raindal how sorry we were about his loss." "Thank you, madame!" Thérèse said, dryly. "My father is at the chapel.... I shall transmit your condolences to him, as soon as he comes home." She fell back into silence. Mme. Chambannes went on, more timidly: "We learned all about it through one of our common friends, the Marquis de Meuze.... Your uncle was not very old, was he?" "Forty-two, madame." "Still young!" Zozé remarked, urged to exaggeration by the fierce looks of Thérèse. She walked towards the door, but stopped halfway: "Will you be kind enough to tell M. Raindal that I shall come to visit him to-morrow?" Icily Thérèse replied. "Do not take this trouble, Madame.... My father will not receive." "Not even his intimate friends?" "No, madame!... His intentions are formal.... There will be no exception for anyone." "Not even for me?" Zozé insisted, with a mock sweetness that was really a challenge. Her languorous eyes seemed to smile, to elaborate on the question: "I, you know, I, Mme. Chambannes; I who took him away from you.... your father; I who hold him, who make him do what I want." The provocation caused Thérèse to become very pale. "Not even for you, madame!" she said with self-restraint.... "Father has decided to keep very strict mourning and I trust that no one will attempt to make him change his mind." "So then, you will prevent him from seeing his friends?" Thérèse's trembling fingers were opening and shutting on the back of an armchair. "We shall not prevent him from doing anything at all, Madame.... I am surprised to hear _you_ using such expressions.... You must have learned in the last six months that our wishes are of little importance against those of my father...." "What do you mean, mademoiselle?" Zozé said, with that impertinent phlegm which is often the only resource of worldly women when engaged in a discussion. "I mean," Thérèse replied haltingly. "I mean to say, or rather you are compelling me to say that, for the last six months, you have taken my father away from us, you have led him away, engaged him in a grotesque _affaire_, the details and aim of which I know nothing of, but the worry of which has never ceased horribly to torment my mother and myself...." "But, mademois...."