understood; her eye mechanically noted a hole in the cloth, her
fingers picked at the crumbs on the table, her mind flew back to a
troublesome bill, till as her husband's eye seemed to catch her in the
act, hastily snatching at the last words she had heard, she went into
raptures over a fragment of verse,--for she could never quote poetry
accurately. "What was that, Agénor? Do repeat that last line. How
beautiful it is." Little Rose, her daughter, frowned, and Maxime,
the grown son, was annoyed and said impatiently: "You are always
interrupting, Mamma!"

Clerambault smiled and patted his wife's hand affectionately. He
had married her for love when he was young, poor, and unknown, and
together they had gone through years of hardship. She was not quite
on his intellectual level and the difference did not diminish with
advancing years, but Clerambault loved and respected his helpmate, and
she strove, without much success, to keep step with her great man of
whom she was so proud. He was extraordinarily indulgent to her. His
was not a critical nature--which was a great help to him in life in
spite of innumerable errors of judgment; but as these were always to
the advantage of others, whom he saw at their best, people laughed
but liked him. He did not interfere with their money hunt and his
countrified simplicity was refreshing to the world-weary, like a
wild-growing thicket in a city square.

Maxime was amused by all this, knowing what it was worth. He was a
good-looking boy of nineteen with bright laughing eyes, and in the
Parisian surroundings he had been quick to acquire the gift of rapid,
humorous observation, dwelling on the outside view of men and things
more than on ideas. Even in those he loved, nothing ridiculous escaped
him, but it was without ill-nature. Clerambault smiled at the youthful