"It is Lerouge," he said, desperately. "Attend, Fouchette!"
The father glanced from one to the other quickly, inquiringly.
"Lerouge?"
"Yes, father,—it is he,—the friend—whom we—whom I expect—to whom I owe reparation——"
The two men studied each other in silence for the few seconds that followed, and Jean saw something like aroused curiosity and wonderment in his father's face,—something that had suddenly taken the place of anger.
Mlle. Fouchette had anticipated the coming of Lerouge with quite a different sentiment to that which overpowered Jean. The latter saw in it only the ruin of his most cherished hopes. Fouchette, on the other hand, with the quicker and surer intuition of the woman, believed the time now ripe for the reconciliation of not only Jean and Lerouge, but of father and son. It would be impossible for Jean and his father to quarrel before this third party. Time would be gained. And then, were not the two affairs one? The straightening out of the tangle between the friends must carry with it the better understanding between Jean and his father.
As to herself, the girl had not one thought. She was completely lifted out of self,—carried away with the intentness of her solicitude for Jean's future.
The situation appealed to her sharpest instincts. Its possibilities passed through her alert mind before she had reached the door. Glorified in her purpose, she flung it wide open.
She was confronted by two persons,—the one bowing, hat in hand; the other smiling, radiantly beautiful.
Mlle. Fouchette stood for a moment like one suddenly turned to stone.