“Oh, he had entered it,” Thérèse cried quickly; “he had entered and was doing admirably when—”
“Well, when—?”
”—They had a disagreement.”
“Ah, a disagreement. On matters connected with money?”
M. Deshoulières thought he was pursuing the examination with great skill; he did not notice the troubled appealing glance which poor Thérèse threw at him before answering slowly,—
“Not altogether.”
“On business, then? It is much the same thing. Five-eighths of the world permit such matters to wreck their lives. And so the old man was angry, and M. Saint-Martin went off in a headstrong fit?”
Poor Thérèse wanted very much to tell her little story—the old, old story—more commonplace even than M. Deshoulières’, yet so new, so beautiful, in her eyes. But how could she? He was so terribly prompt and abrupt, he would not see what she meant, would not help her, his quick manner frightened her, her education had taught her reserve, she needed sympathy to draw out little by little what it was so hard to say in words; after all, it was not necessary that she should relate her share in the matter. She said, sighing,—“The two disagreed, monsieur, as you say.”
“And so the young man acted in this wise fashion?”
“It was not Fabien’s fault. It was his uncle who was angry. Fabien had done nothing wrong.” Her whole attitude changed; her throat curved, her eyes kindled; evidently she was prepared to do battle for the absent if the opportunity came. M. Deshoulières, however, had relapsed into silence, his elbows on his knees, his hands thrust into his hair. Looking up at last, he suddenly said,—