"That's Marguerite's step," said her father.
The crying of the mother ceased. Was it because she realized the other woman's pain? Was it because she wanted to be brave, or because she wanted to postpone the news?
The men regrouped themselves around the table. A key was turned in the latch. The door opened wide and radiantly Marguerite floated into the room.
"Bonsoir, papa, Bonsoir, mes amis. Good news! Very good news!"
She kissed every one present as she spread a newspaper on the table.
"Yesterday the Bulgars asked for peace, to-day St. Quentin is French again."
She took her father's hand and started to dance.
"What's the matter, quoi? Why don't you dance? Come quick, the Marseillaise—Allons enfants de la patrie——"
But no one moved. Mamma Clement came out from her room. "Oh, Marguerite!" she wanted to cry, but checked herself in presence of so much exuberance.
"We can't dance, Marguerite; it's—after ten o'clock—it's New York. People want to sleep."