near the window, his open book before him, Madame standing at the
other side of the table, her cunning eyes bathed in tears, and her
pocket-handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Her eyes glittered stealthily on
me for an instant: she was sobbing--_désolée_, in fact--that grim grenadier
lady, and her attitude was exquisitely dejected and timid. But she was,
notwithstanding, reading closely and craftily my father's face. He was not
looking at her, but rather upward toward the ceiling, reflectively leaning
on his hand, with an expression, not angry, but rather surly and annoyed.

'I ought to have heard of this before, Madame,' my father was saying as I
came in; 'not that it would have made any difference--not the least; mind
that. But it was the kind of thing that I ought to have heard, and the
omission was not strictly right.'

Madame, in a shrill and lamentable key, opened her voluble reply, but was
arrested by a nod from my father, who asked me if I wanted anything.

'Only--only that I was waiting in the school-room for Madame, and did not
know where she was.'

'Well, she is here, you see, and will join you up-stairs in a few minutes.'

So back I went again, huffed, angry, and curious, and sat back in my chair
with a clouded countenance, thinking very little about lessons.

When Madame entered, I did not lift my head or eyes.

'Good cheaile! reading,' said she, as she approached briskly and reassured.

'No,' I answered tartly; 'not good, nor a child either; I'm not reading,