delight of Delobelle, who talked over with them old memories of their
days of strolling. Fancy a collection of odds and ends of scenery,
extinct lanterns, and mouldy, crumbling stage properties.

In a sort of vulgar, meaningless, familiar slang, they recalled their
innumerable triumphs; for all three of them, according to their own
stories, had been applauded, laden with laurel-wreaths, and carried in
triumph by whole cities.

While they talked they ate as actors usually eat, sitting with their
faces turned three-fourths toward the audience, with the unnatural haste
of stage guests at a pasteboard supper, alternating words and mouthfuls,
seeking to produce an effect by their manner of putting down a glass or
moving a chair, and expressing interest, amazement, joy, terror,
surprise, with the aid of a skilfully handled knife and fork. Madame
Delobelle listened to them with a smiling face.

One can not be an actor's wife for thirty years without becoming somewhat
accustomed to these peculiar mannerisms.

But one little corner of the table was separated from the rest of the
party as by a cloud which intercepted the absurd remarks, the hoarse
laughter, the boasting. Frantz and Desiree talked together in
undertones, hearing naught of what was said around them. Things that
happened in their childhood, anecdotes of the neighborhood, a whole ill-
defined past which derived its only value from the mutual memories
evoked, from the spark that glowed in the eyes of both-those were the
themes of their pleasant chat.

Suddenly the cloud was torn aside, and Delobelle's terrible voice