“Child, when your father is here, there is never anything to be afraid of—do you hear?”
And I was at once consoled.
She was already hastening after the labourer with a ball of red string in her hand which Mariette had doubtless refused to intrust to him. As she went she tossed her head proudly, like a horse that snuffs the wind and I heard her muttering to herself.
“Well, I declare, if that isn’t the last drop!”
By what signs, that Saturday evening, did I discern that the battle had been fought, that we were only waiting to learn the result? In the kitchen there was no Mariette over the stove. She was debating, vehemently, with Philomena, the waitress, who was carrying the soup tureen all awry, at great risk of spilling its contents, and with my old friend Tem, redder even than usual, who was doing his best to reassure the household by a word of prophecy.
“No, no, things will go well. To begin with, for my part, I will not leave the garden.”
As soon as they saw me there was silence, and Mariette quickly recovered her usual coolness and began to scold me.
“You are late, Master Francis. The second bell has rung. You will be scolded.” And to Philomena:
“Why are you standing there like a stock?”
Thus were we dispersed. I was counting upon meeting Aunt Deen in the vestibule before the dining-room; she was always the last to come to table because on the way she would find thirty-six different things to be begun or finished, and dash upstairs and down an indefinite number of times. My tactics succeeded. To forestall inquiry I took the offensive: