Hortense’s voice became sourer still, whilst two livid spots appeared on her cheeks.
“Mamma, you know how I am. I want him, and I will have him. I will never marry any one else, even though he kept me waiting a hundred years.”
The mother shrugged her shoulders.
“And you call others fools!”
But the young girl rose up, quivering with rage.
“Here! don’t go pitching into me!” cried she. “I have finished my rabbit. I prefer to go to bed. As you are unable to find us husbands, you must let us find them in our own way.”
And she withdrew, violently slamming the door behind her.
Madame Josserand turned majestically towards her husband, and uttered this profound remark:
“That, sir, is the result of your bringing up!”
Monsieur Josserand did not protest; he was occupied in dotting his thumb nail with ink, whilst waiting till they allowed him to resume his writing. Berthe, who had eaten her bread, dipped a finger in the glass to finish up her syrup. She felt comfortable, with her back nice and warm, and did not hurry herself, being undesirous of encountering her sister’s quarrelsome temper in their bedroom.