"Well, this young man.... At the dance." Thérèse started; she looked at him fiercely and replied with bravado: "What young man?" "This M. Boerzell!" A sigh of relief escaped her. Oh, only that one.... Poor fellow, she had forgotten him so! She smiled, and her voice firmly uttered: "No, father, never!" M. Raindal insisted. "Why? You seemed to like him...." "Yes, to talk to, perhaps ... but that's all." "And so you don't want him?... You have thought it over well? Let me know at least...." "You know since I told you.... I don't want him." She grabbed her father's hand and tenderly bent towards him, offering her cheek. M. Raindal kissed her and grunted: "As you like. I have no right to compel you." Then cunningly, to make sure, he added, without releasing her hand: "To be sure, he is not such a good-looking man as the other one." He paused, feeling the contraction in his daughter's hand. "Yes, the other one.... Your dancer.... What was his name?... This M. de Meuze...." Sharply Thérèse pulled her hand back and said with vexation: "Oh, father, don't make any comparison, please.... M. Boerzell does not appeal to me.... I refuse him.... That's enough.... I think I am old enough, am I not?" The master did not reply. There was no doubt about it. It was that tall man, that sort of worldly Dastarac, who had spoiled everything and ruined the prospects of little Boerzell owing to that advantageous height of his. A lost attempt! M. Raindal became absorbed in self-recriminations. Nothing more was heard but the noise of the wheels on the pavement and the vibrations of the carriage windows in their frames. Thérèse, her head bent back, was apparently dozing, and so was Mme. Raindal in her corner. But she was not asleep. A remorseful torture, more atrocious than a nightmare, kept her eyes awake under their lids. With anguish she was estimating the number of hours that would stretch before the next morning, the blessed moment when she could confess her recent sins in the peace of the Church. Had she not, prompted by thirst, or led into temptation, helped herself three times to iced coffee and twice to _marquise au champagne_, without counting a number of _petits-fours_ and other dainties? CHAPTER V It was past eleven o'clock and Mme. Chambannes had almost finished dressing when someone knocked at her door. Her maid opened it just enough to allow one arm to pass in, holding a special delivery letter, while a voice proclaimed: "Telegram for Madame." "Give it to me ... quick!" Mme. Chambannes said. Her maid was fastening her dress, but left it and hurried to take the message. Mme. Chambannes tore it open with trembling fingers and read rapidly, glancing hurriedly at the lines: Tuesday morning, 10 A. M.