She hesitated.
“Well ... of this ... of this affair?”
Thérèse rose to kiss her mother and held her tightly.
“Of course, dear mother!... You are so funny!... Why not?”
A tear rolled down the cheek of Mme. Raindal.
“I do know.... You have such a wicked air, you and your father ... sometimes, each at your desk, with never a word for me when I come in.... Upon my word I am afraid of you both!”
And she left, taking short, weary steps, to warn Brigitte in time.
At the same time, Mme. Chambannes, to please M. Raindal, was giving him the names of her guests.
“I assure you, dear master; it will be absolutely among ourselves.... My Uncle and Aunt Panhias, our friend, young M. de Meuze, and perhaps the abbé Touronde....”
She had hardly said his name when the latter entered the smoking-room.