"A bookbinder, Madame"--and the bookbinder's son blushed as he
gave the answer. At that moment he would gladly have consented
never to see his father more, his father whom he loved, if by
the sacrifice he could have passed for the son of a Captain in
the Navy or a Secretary of Embassy. He suddenly remembered that
one of his fellow-pupils was the son of a celebrated physician
whose portrait was displayed in the stationers' windows.

If only he had had a father like that to tell Madame Ewans of!
But that was out of the question--and how cruelly unjust it was!
He felt ashamed of himself, as if he had said something shocking.

But his friend's mother seemed quite unaffected by the dreadful
avowal. She was still moving her hands at random up and down
the keyboard. Then presently:

"You must enjoy yourself finely to-day, boys," she cried. "We
will all go out. Shall I take you to the fair at Saint-Cloud?"

Yes, Edgar was all for going, because of the roundabouts.

Madame Ewans rose from the piano, patted her pale flaxen hair
in place with a pretty gesture, and gave a sidelong look in the
mirror as she passed.

"I'm going to dress," she told them; "I shall not be long."

While she was dressing, Edgar sat at the piano trying to pick
out a tune from an opera bouffe, and Jean, perched uncomfortably
on the edge of his chair, stared about the room at a host of