“Well, I’m angry now,” said Jean; “I’m angry with myself—I can’t be angrier—what have you done?”
“It isn’t me,” said Margot, wiping away her tears. “It’s just Paris, I suppose—it’s just everything—but I can’t help it, Jean. I don’t like the Toriallis.”
Jean frowned; he drew a little further away from her. “Suppose we leave them out?” he suggested.
“I would if I could,” said Margot; “but you see, Jean—she does do the accounts with Flaubert.”
“Do the accounts with Flaubert! Do you mean Madame?” Jean rose to his feet. “You’re mad, my dear,” he said brusquely. “Madame has nothing whatever to do with the business—what accounts do you mean?”
“They all say so,” said Margot; “and after all, it’s the Toriallis’ business, they must come in somewhere!”
Jean swore at the business.
“They don’t,” he added, and as Margot seemed to fancy that swearing had not yet cleared up the situation. “But what’s wrong with your account?” he added. “Flaubert promised me to charge you merely a nominal sum.”
“It’s four hundred francs for a dozen lessons, Jean,” said Margot.
Jean started as if he had been stung.