M. Raindal out of curiosity soon brought his chair forward and took part in the discussion of the two young people. They were flirting over the interpretation of a tri-lingual inscription recently discovered in Mesopotamia. Thérèse was defending her interpretation with that professional assurance, that man's voice, which she always assumed in the course of scientific discussions. "Ah, Monsieur!" Boerzell exclaimed in discouragement. "Mademoiselle is very strong; she knows much more than I.... She has beaten me...." Smilingly M. Raindal agreed. "Well, you are not the first!... Often I myself...." The waltz had finished and the two cab horses were coming back to their stand which the young savant had to leave. He asked Thérèse: "Would you allow me to take you to the buffet with Madame, your mother?" "With pleasure, monsieur! Will you come, Mother?" Mme. Raindal took Boerzell's arm and Thérèse followed behind, going towards the buffet through the crowd of dancers who were returning to their seats. M. Raindal watched them go. He was sitting in his favorite position: his elbows were pressed against his sides, his forearms up, and his hands hung limp at the end of his wrists like the paws of a "begging" dog. From his seat through the wide open door he could see without effort into the dining-room. He perceived the back of his wife; she was bent over the elaborate table hastily making her choice. Against the high chimney covered with white blossoms Thérèse stood with Boerzell; they were sipping out of their spoons a pink fruit-like ice; they stopped at times and looked at each other laughingly, chatting, their heads close together, like life-long friends. If only she could make up her mind! If she would accept that young man!... No, that would be too fine!... And yet, who knew!... The ebb and flow of contradictory thoughts caused M. Raindal's lips to stretch in softened smiles or to purse in bitter grimaces. Then his colleagues approached and began to congratulate him upon his new book. More of them joined the first ones. A small, applauding group surrounded M. Raindal and hid his daughter from his sight. The last comers tipped their heads to one side, straining their ears to catch the master's replies. "You are very good...." "I am ashamed, really...." "Be sure that on my side...." The complimenters vied with each other in outbidding and protested their sincerity in extravagant praise. At length the enthusiasm came to an end. They became silent and listened to M. Raindal, who was recalling memories of his youth and the misery of his early efforts. Suddenly the purring voice of Saulvard caused the ranks of the audience to open. "Pardon, Gentlemen! Pardon!" With one hand bent like the prow of a boat, he was making a path for a dark-haired young woman who hung on his arm; he came to a stop near M. Raindal.