Morestal shrugged his shoulders.
Philippe insisted:
"It was at night.... You may have made a mistake...."
"No, no, I tell you, no," growled Morestal, angrily. "I know what I am talking about. You'll end by annoying me."
Marthe tried to interfere:
"Come, Philippe.... Your father is accustomed to ..."
But Philippe caught her by the arm and, roughly:
"Hold your tongue ... I won't allow it.... What do you know?... What are you meddling for?"
He broke off suddenly, as though ashamed of his anger, and, in a fit of weakness and uncertainty, murmured an apology: