In the mirror she shunned the eyes of her mother and of Mme. Chambannes. A growing anger put fresh speed into her fingers. Yes! They might well look at her! She had indeed the look of a woman who had just fainted. She could not have jumped up in worse disorder and less command of herself had a man seen her thus undressed and disheveled. Her eyes shone bigger; her eyelids showed a dark shadow as if she had spent a sleepless night. Perspiration had laid oily tints on the wings of her nostrils and marked her powdered cheeks with greasy lines. Her bunch of carnations had fallen down; there was a deep gap in her hair, just over her forehead, like a dark-edged wound. In her haste she had hooked her corsage awry and the gauze gaped over her breast, a loose, transparent cord. "Poor girl!" Mme. Chambannes risked.... "Do you feel better?" Thérèse coldly replied: "Much better, madame, thank you." She turned to her mother and asked in a tone of command: "Well, mother, are we going?" "Just as you say, dear," Mme. Raindal replied. They went to the anteroom where the men were waiting. As she came in sight, Gerald rushed forward to inquire and Boerzell imitated him. But Thérèse, with intentional oversight, hurried towards the cloakroom. When she came back, leaning on her father's arm, they were gone. Stupefied, M. Raindal, his satin hat curled under his arm, supported her wearily. Mme. Raindal closed the cortège, her back bent under her cape as if she had been an aged servant. Saulvard escorted them to the top of the stairs. "It is the heat, that damned heat!" he repeated petulantly. Bending his little form over the ebony banisters, he shouted: "To-morrow, I shall send for news.... It will be nothing, I hope, my dear colleague!" * * * * * In the cab that took them home M. Raindal had sat opposite them, leaving the back seat to his wife and daughter. For a long time they were silent. Dreamily they gazed through the windows dimmed by the steam, watching the black streets and the gas street-lamps with their yellow flames flattened in fanshape. Sitting sideways the master lost his balance at every jump of the wheels. He had to catch himself up with the help of the strap that hung in front of the windows; the hard leather cut his hands and the wooden door hurt his bones. A heavier jolt threw him against his daughter. Thérèse exclaimed impatiently: "Father, you are very uncomfortable. Come and sit here between us." "No," M. Raindal replied, "not at all.... Don't you move.... Well, how are you getting on?" "Very well, father, thank you." Silence fell again and once more Thérèse sat motionless. Through the semi-darkness M. Raindal contemplated her pouting profile behind which, no doubt, lurked sorrowful thoughts. He mustered all his energy and gently asked: "Well, dear?" She repeated, "Well, what, father?" A pause. Then M. Raindal spoke.