"No, Maxime, no, it's nothing."
"Well, what is it? Now tell me...."
In a lower tone she said:
"Oh, I am very miserable, dear Maxime!"
"Really? Tell me all about it while you eat your bread."
"Oh, I shall certainly not eat my bread. I am too miserable to eat. You know Lucy—Lucy Campbell, my dearest friend. Well, we've quarrelled completely."
"Oh, mon Dieu! Don't worry, darling, you'll make it up. It will be all right, dear."
"Oh, Maxime, that's impossible. It was such a serious quarrel. It was nothing at first, but you know one gets excited and loses one's head. Listen, Maxime! We were playing battledore, and Lucy made a mistake about the score. I was six hundred and eighty, and she was only six hundred and fifteen, and she declared she was six hundred and sixty-five! You must say that was a little too bad. Of course I said my figure was right, and she said hers was. 'Well, mademoiselle,' I said to her, 'let us ask these young ladies. I appeal to them.' 'No, mademoiselle,' she replied, 'I am sure I am right, and you don't play fair.' 'And—and you, mademoiselle,' I said to her—'you are a liar!' 'Very well, mademoiselle,' she said then, 'I despise you too much to answer you.' Just at that moment Sister Sainte-Félix came up, which was a good thing, for I am sure I should have hit her. Now, you know what happened. Can we possibly make it up? No, it is impossible; it would be cowardly. But I can't tell you how I suffer. I don't believe there's any one in the world so miserable as I am."
"Yes, dear, it's difficult to imagine anything more distressing; but it seems to me that you partly brought it on yourself, for it was you who used the most offensive word. Tell me, is Lucy in the parlour?"
"Yes, there she is, in the corner."