sure, but--I came--I thought you stayed at Asnieres Sundays.
I wanted to speak to you on a matter of business."

Thereupon, entangling himself in his words, he began to talk hurriedly
of an important order. Sidonie had disappeared after exchanging a few
unmeaning words with the impassive Frantz. Madame Dobson continued
her tremolos on the soft pedal, like those which accompany critical
situations at the theatre.

In very truth, the situation at that moment was decidedly strained.
But Risler's good-humor banished all constraint. He apologized to his
partner for not being at home, and insisted upon showing Frantz the
house. They went from the salon to the stable, from the stable to the
carriage-house, the servants' quarters, and the conservatory. Everything
was new, brilliant, gleaming, too small, and inconvenient.

"But," said Risler, with a certain pride, "it cost a heap of money!"

He persisted in compelling admiration of Sidonie's purchase even to its
smallest details, exhibited the gas and water fixtures on every
floor, the improved system of bells, the garden seats, the English
billiard-table, the hydropathic arrangements, and accompanied his
exposition with outbursts of gratitude to Fromont Jeune, who, by taking
him into partnership, had literally placed a fortune in his hands.

At each new effusion on Risler's part, Georges Fromont shrank visibly,
ashamed and embarrassed by the strange expression on Frantz's face.

The breakfast was lacking in gayety.

Madame Dobson talked almost without interruption, overjoyed to be
swimming in the shallows of a romantic love-affair. Knowing, or rather
believing that she knew her friend's story from beginning to end, she
understood the lowering wrath of Frantz, a former lover furious at
finding his place filled, and the anxiety of Georges, due to the
appearance of a rival; and she encouraged one with a glance, consoled
the other with a smile, admired Sidonie's tranquil demeanor, and
reserved all her contempt for that abominable Risler, the vulgar,
uncivilized tyrant. She made an effort to prevent any of those horrible
periods of silence, when the clashing knives and forks mark time in such
an absurd and embarrassing way.

As soon as breakfast was at an end Fromont Jeune announced that he must
return to Savigny. Risler did not venture to detain him, thinking that
his dear Madame Chorche would pass her Sunday all alone; and so, without
an opportunity to say a word to his mi