"Monsieur! Monsieur! Hold, Jean! Do not answer him! Not now,—not now!"

The elder Marot glanced at her as if she were some sort of vermin. This at first, then he hesitated before kicking her out of the way.

"Ah, messieurs! is it the way to reconciliation and love to go at it in hot blood and hard words? Take a little time,—there is plenty and to spare. Anger never settles anything. Sit down, monsieur, will you not? Why, Monsieur Jean! Will you not offer your father a chair? And remember, he is your father, monsieur. Remember that before you speak. It is easy to say hard words, but the cure is slow and difficult, messieurs. Why not deliberate and reason without anger?"

As she talked she placed chairs, towards one of which she gently urged Marot senior. Then she insisted upon taking his hat. A man with his hat off is not so easily roused to anger as he is with it on, nor can one maintain his resentment at the highest pitch while sitting down. There was this much gained by Mlle. Fouchette's diplomacy.

But the first glance about the room restored the father's belligerency. He saw the elaborately laid table, the flowers, the wine——

"I am honored, monsieur," he said to his son, sarcastically, "though I had no idea that you expected me."

"It is—er—I had a friend——"

"Oh! I know quite well I have no reason to anticipate such a royal welcome. Yet there are three plates——"

"That was for Fouchette," said Jean, hastily and unthinkingly. "You will be welcome at my humble table, father."

"Fouchette,"—he had noticed the glance at the girl, now making a pretence of arranging the table,—"and so this is Fouchette, eh? And your humble table, eh?"