Thérèse. Here! [Holding out the first letter]
Mademoiselle de Meuriot [as she works] And you? How are you this morning? [Looking closely at her and shaking a finger] You're tired, little girl. You sat up working last night.
Thérèse. I wanted to finish copying out my manuscript. It took me ages, because I wanted to make it as clear as print.
Mademoiselle de Meuriot [gravely] You know you mustn't be ill, Thérèse.
Thérèse. How good you are, Mademoiselle, and how lucky I am to have you for a friend. What should I do without you?
Mademoiselle de Meuriot. How about your godmother?
Thérèse. I didn't get on with her. She never could hide her dislike for me, and it burst out in the end. When she saw that in spite of everything she could say I was going to leave her, she let herself go and made a dreadful scene. And, what was worse, my good, kind godfather joined in! It seemed as if they thought my wanting to be independent was a direct insult to them. What a lot of letters there are to-day.
Mademoiselle de Meuriot. It's the renewal of the subscriptions.
Thérèse. Oh, is that it? So you see we parted, not exactly enemies—but, well—on our dignity. We write little letters to one another now, half cold and half affectionate. I tell you, without you I should be quite alone.
Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Not more alone than I am.