of time. The velvet on the chairs was darned at the angles as with
the needle of a fairy. Stitches of new worsted showed through the
faded designs on the hearth-rugs. The curtains had been turned so
as to display their least worn side.

All the guests enumerated by the shop-keeper, and a few others
besides, were in the parlor when M. Favoral came in. But, instead
of returning their greeting:

"Where is Maxence?" he inquired.

"I am expecting him, my dear," said Mme. Favoral gently.

"Always behind time," he scolded. "It is too trifling."

His daughter, Mlle. Gilberte, interrupted him:

"Where is my bouquet, father?" she asked.

M. Favoral stopped short, struck his forehead, and with the accent
of a man who reveals something incredible, prodigious, unheard of,

"Forgotten," he answered, scanning the syllables: "I have for-got-ten
it."

It was a fact. Every Saturday, on his way home, he was in the habit
of stopping at the old woman's shop in front of the Church of St.
Louis, and buying a bouquet for Mlle. Gilberte. And to-day . . .

"Ah! I catch you this time, father!" exclaimed the girl.