"Ah, my dear colleague!... What joy!... I was almost despairing...." His two hands caught that of M. Raindal and he went on: "I have not seen you since your success!... What a triumph!... What a beautiful book!... Madame.... Mademoiselle...." He bowed, then, standing on tiptoe so as to reach the ear of M. Raindal, he whispered: "You know, our young man is here ... a charming fellow. He will attract your daughter very much.... No escape.... _Fata volunt_.... This way, please, come, my dear colleague, and I shall bring you that phenix...." By an instinctive pressure on the shoulder he shunted Raindal towards a corner of the drawing-room where the section of the Inscriptions had disposed its trenches. A few chairs were left unoccupied in the first and second rows. M. and Mme. Raindal settled down behind and Thérèse sat in front of them between the two daughters of one of her father's colleagues. They were thin and small, like the raw-boned hectic teams that draw the Paris public cabs. They conversed, but furtively inspected the girl's dress. Thérèse looked up when she heard the voice of Saulvard who was making his reappearance, followed by a young man of very short stature. "My dear friend, dear master," he called over the heads of the girls, "allow me to introduce one of our young confrères, whose name you surely know: M. Pierre Boerzell...." Each of the two savants mumbled courteous expressions which the other could not catch. Then Saulvard added: "M. Pierre Boerzell ... Mlle. Raindal." The young man bowed awkwardly. The orchestra was preluding with the slow harmonies of a waltz. He murmured: "Mademoiselle, will you give me the pleasure of this waltz?" Sympathetically Thérèse refused. "No, Monsieur, thank you.... I don't dance ... but if you wish ... we might, as one says, I believe, talk it...." Boerzell stammered a grateful acceptance. The two "hackney horses" had started immediately for the waltz. He took one of the chairs they had left empty by the side of Thérèse. The conversation, which she had cleverly directed at once towards scientific matters, became cordial and almost familiar. He was not handsome. His chest was narrow, his nose short; his cheeks were bloated and flabby, almost falling over a suspicion of a beard. His eyelids were heavy from night work. His eyes, however, behind the thick glasses of his pince-nez, shone with a kind and tender light. When he talked, his voice had those caressing and particular inflections of intellectual people who enjoy having their words sound like true coin; and while he spoke his gestures became more alert and vivacious; his arms relaxed as he grew less embarrassed.