"What? You have accepted their invitation. It is too late to refuse. Then, the other day you declined at the last minute. And you have just told me you are not ill—no, no, you must come; it is absolutely necessary."
"Nevertheless, I shall not go," Elizabeth repeated with a new note of authority.
For Mme. Molay-Norrois there were no small and great events. She valued equally social obligations and those which concerned the serious affairs of life. Her daughter's defiance shocked her respect for the laws of society, as much as it offended her affection which she now considered to be of no avail. She tried to coax her with gentle insistence which she finally saw would produce no result.
After her departure and slight thought of regret concerning the misunderstanding, Elizabeth found joy in again indulging her melancholy. She was soon aroused out of it, however, by her father who did not even knock at the door, and came in quite unceremoniously, dashing, beaming, smiling, his eyes bright, his mustache curled and a rose bud in the buttonhole of his dinner coat.
"He, too!" she thought, irritated and cross.
He paid no attention to her unfriendly attitude. He never needed to exert himself with Elizabeth, who was always so tractable.
"Well, little one?" he asked, playfully. "You have nerves, you have asserted yourself, you have made your mother cry, and she is crying, on my word! She certainly needs very little to make her weep."
Curled up in her chair, she did not deign to answer him, and to avoid saying too much, she drew her lips together, so that her mouth was tight shut. Despite his white hair, he was very lively in his evening attire. If he had had any idea of what she was thinking of him, he would have ceased to annoy her.
"Are you ill? No ...? Besides, women's nerves! Come along with us. The Vimelles will be so offended if you do not come. Philippe Lagier will amuse you. He is witty and lively. He is rather making love to you, Philippe Lagier, eh. Eh!"
"No one is making love to me."