"Oh! chocolate custard," cried out Esperance with rapture, "Marguerite
is giving us a treat."

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew very well...."

A ring at the front door bell cut short her words. They listened
silently, and heard the door open, and someone come in. Then the maid
entered with a card.

Francois Darbois rose at once. "I will see him in the salon," he said.

He handed the card to his wife and went to meet his visitor. Esperance
leaned towards her mother and read with her the celebrated name,
"Victorien Sardou." Together they questioned the import of this visit,
without being able to find any satisfactory explanation.

When Francois entered the salon, Sardou was standing, his hands
clasped behind him, examining through half-closed eyes a delicate
pastel, signed Chaplain--a portrait of Madame Darbois at twenty. At
the professor's entry, he turned round and exclaimed with the engaging
friendliness that was one of his special charms, "What a very pretty
thing, and what superb colour!"

Then advancing, "It is to M. Francois Darbois that I have the pleasure
of speaking, is it not?"

He had not missed the formality in the surprise evinced by the
professor as, without speaking, the professor bowed him towards a
chair.