"Andrée!" whispered her brother, warningly. "Remember the salt woman!"
Mlle. Fouchette raised one little nervous finger to her lips and gently closed the door.
"Pray do not seem to notice," she whispered. "But you did not know, then, that Jean and his father have been estranged, oh! for months? That the poor young man had been cast off,—forsaken by father and mother——"
"But why?" insisted Mlle. Remy. "It must have been something dreadful,—some horrible mistake, I mean. Why should——"
The confusion of Mlle. Fouchette was too evident to press this questioning. And it was increased by the curious manner in which the pair regarded her.
For a single instant she had wavered. She had secretly pressed her lips to her sister's dress, and she felt that she could give the whole world for one little loving minute in her sister's arms.
"Fouchette!"
At least one dilemma relieved her from another; so she flew to answer Jean's call, like the well-trained servant she was fast becoming.
"That's right, Fouchette. I'm glad to find you more attentive to our guests than I am. But I've been so confoundedly upset—and everlastingly happy. We shall want another plate. Yes, my father will honor us. I say, Fouchette, what a night! What a night!"
"I am so glad, Monsieur Jean! I am so glad!"