"His servant, monsieur."

"Oh! So!"

"And you, monsieur——"

"I am his father, mademoiselle."

"Ah!" He need not have told her that.

At this instant the inner door was thrown wide open, and Jean, who had recognized his father's voice with consternation, was in the opening.

Father and son stood thus confronting each other for some seconds, mute,—the father sternly and with unrelenting eye, the son with a pride sustained by obstinacy and bitterness. The sting of his father's letter was fresh, and he nerved himself for further insults. Nor had he to wait long, for his father advanced upon him as he retired into the room, with a growing menace in his tone at every successive step.

"So! Here you are, you—you——"

"Father!"

The old man had excitedly raised his hand as if to strike his son without further words, but he found Mlle. Fouchette between them.