"It is always a pleasure to listen to Mademoiselle."
"I fear," replied Mademoiselle, "that this will be the exception."
"Impossible," said my father, sipping his wine.
"All this morning I have tried to have a word with you," said Mademoiselle, "but your time has been well taken up. I hoped to speak to you instead of your son, but he failed to take my advice and remain quiet. As I said before, you are both stubborn. Not that it has made much difference. You still have the paper."
She caused, and surveyed him calmly.
"Is it not painful to continue the discussion?" my father inquired. "I assure you I have not changed my mind since last evening, nor shall I change it. Must I repeat that the affair of the paper is finished?"
"We shall see," said Mademoiselle.
"As Mademoiselle wishes," said my father.
"It has been six years since I first saw you in Paris," said Mademoiselle. Her voice was softly musical, and somehow she was no longer cold and forbidding. My father placed his wine glass on the table, and seemingly a little disturbed, gave her his full attention.
"Six years," said Mademoiselle. "I have often thought of you since then.