"I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when
you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter,
clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes.

"Where is Victor going with the rockaway?"

"The rockaway? Victor?"

"Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away
somewhere."

"Call him." Clatter, clatter!

Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard
back at the wharf.

"He won't look up."

Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a
handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the
vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop.

Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor
was the younger son and brother--a tete montee, with a temper which
invited violence and a will which no ax could break.

"Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into
him that he's able to hold."