"There's a father who doesn't say what he thinks, I am sure."

While Adolphine took her place at the piano, young Anatole said to Monléard:

"Ith it true that Morithel hath run away?"

"Why, yes!"

"The devil! And he'th carried off thix hundred thouthand francth, they thay."

"Something like that."

"You had thome buthineth relathionth with him; haven't you lotht anything by him?"

"No—a trifle—some thirty thousand francs or so."

"A trifle like that would embarrath me thadly! To be thure, I'm not a capitalitht like you."

Auguste bit his lips and took a seat by the piano. Adolphine sang a lovely romanza by Nadaud. Her voice was sweet and well modulated; in a word, it was a sympathetic voice, and, furthermore, its possessor had an agreeable habit of pronouncing distinctly the words she sang; which increased twofold the pleasure of those who listened to her.