such a length. He was anxious to see his son earning money in
some department of administration or other. He had heard speak
of the _Hôtel de Ville_ and the Government Offices, and he
racked his brains to think of someone among his customers who
might interest himself in his son's future. But he was not the
man to act precipitately.

One day, when Jean Servien was out on one of the long walks he had
got into the habit of taking, he read on a poster that his Émilie,
Mademoiselle Gabrielle T----, was appearing in that evening's
piece. This time, ignoring his aunt's disapproval, he donned his
Sunday clothes, had his hair frizzed and curled, and took his
seat in the orchestra stalls.

He saw her again! For the first few moments she did not seem
so beautiful as he had pictured her. So long had he laboured
and lain awake over the first image he had carried away of her
that the impression had become blurred, and the type that had
originally imprinted it on his heart no longer corresponded with
the result created by his mind's unconscious working. Then he
was disconcerted to see neither the white _stola_ and saffron
mantle nor the bracelets and fillets that had seemed to him part
and parcel of the beauty they adorned. Now she wore the turban
of Roxana and the wide muslin trousers caught in at the ankle.
It was only by degrees he could grow reconciled to the change.
He realized that her arms were a trifle thin, and that a tooth
stood back behind the rest in the row of pearls. But in the end
her very defects pleased him, because they were hers, and he loved
her the better for them. This time, by the law of change which is
of the very essence of life, and by virtue of the imperfection