Saint-Amands, the other, the young Chinese Yaia, hardly
hiding a wild desire to laugh.

Thereupon a great silence; after which, the lover begins his little
story.

I quite believe that Mlle. Elise has some suspicion in her mind, for
as soon as their young neighbour spoke of a communication, she drew her
_Ansart et Rendu_ from her pocket and plunged precipitately into the
adventures of somebody surnamed the Hutin, thrilling reading which makes
the book tremble in her hands. There is reason for trembling, certainly,
before the bewilderment, the indignant stupefaction into which M.
Joyeuse receives this request for his daughter's hand.

"Is it possible? How has it happened? What an extraordinary event! Who
could ever have suspected such a thing?"

And suddenly the good old man burst into a great roar of laughter. Well,
no, it is not true. He had heard of the affair; knew about it, a long
time ago.

Her father knew all about it! Bonne Maman had betrayed them then! And
before the reproachful glances cast in her direction, the culprit comes
forward smiling:

"Yes, my dears, it is I. The secret was too much for me. I found I could
not keep it to myself alone. And then, father is so kind--one cannot
hide anything from him."

As she says this she throws her arms round the little man's neck; but
there is room enough for two, and when Mlle. Elise in her turn takes
refuge there, there is still an affectionate, fatherly hand stretched
out towards him whom M. Joyeuse considers thenceforward as his son.
Silent embraces, long looks meeting each other full of emotion, blessed
moments that one would like to hold forever by the fragile tips of
their wings. There is chat, and gentle laughter when certain details
are recalled. M. Joyeuse tells how the secret was revealed to him in the
first instance by tapping spirits, one day when he was alone in
Andre's apartment. "How is business going, M. Maranne?" the spirits had
inquired, and he himself had replied in Maranne's absence: "Fairly well,
for the season, Sir Spirit." The little man repeats, "Fairly well for
the season," in a mischievous way, while Mlle. Elise, quite confused
at the thought that it was with her father that she talked that day,
disappears under her fair curls.

After the first stress of emotion they talk more seriously. It is
certain that Mme. Joyeuse, _nee_ de Saint-Amand, would never have
consented to this marriage. Andre Maranne is not rich, still less noble;
b