They crossed the room. Suddenly Marcel became very grave; he had recognized Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She, too, had seen him approach, and, trembling, had not had the courage to look him in the face. Uncle Graff, with his usual good nature, said—
“Well, Mademoiselle Geneviève, what are you going to sell me? Children’s hoods? How much a dozen?”
“Sixty francs, as it is you, Monsieur Graff. And you can leave them with us if you like.”
“Certainly. It would be too much trouble to carry them all off.”
“What you leave us we will give to the Sainte-Enfance institution. After you have finished, if there is anything which remains one of our friends has promised to buy it up.”
“Who is she?”
“Mademoiselle Marianne Lichtenbach.”
Graff started. His face changed expression, and he said—
“The daughter of—”
As he took a step backwards he heard a gentle voice say—