he bent over an instant to his mother's ear, saying: "And
Clementine?" This word was pronounced so low and so close that M.
Renault himself could not tell whether it was a word or a kiss. The good
lady smiled tenderly, and answered but a single word: "Patience!" As if
patience were a virtue very common among lovers!

The door of the house was wide open, and old Gothon was standing on the
threshold. She raised her arms toward heaven and cried like a booby,
for she had known Leon since he was not much higher than her wash-tub.
There was now another formidable hugging on the upper step, between the
good old servant and her young master. After a reasonable interval, the
friends of M. Renault prepared to leave, but it was wasted pains; for
they were assured that their places at table had already been prepared.
And when all save the invisible Clementine were reassembled in the
parlor, the great round-backed chairs held out their arms to the scion
of the house of Renault; the old mirror on the mantle delighted to
reflect his image; the great chandelier chimed a little song of welcome
with its crystal pendants, and the mandarins on the etagere shook their
heads in sign of welcome, as if they were orthodox _penates_ instead of
strangers and pagans. No one can tell why kisses and tears began to rain
down again, but it certainly did seem as if he had once more just
returned.

"Soup!" cried Gothon.

Madame Renault took the arm of her son, contrary to all the laws of
etiquette, and without even apologizing to the honored guests present.
She scarcely excused herself, even, for helping the son before the
company. Leon let her have her own way, and took it all smilingly: there
was not a guest there who was not ready to upset his soup over his
waistcoat rather than taste it before Leon.

"Mother!" cried Leon, spoon in hand, "this is the first time for three
years that I've tasted good soup." Madame Renault felt herself blush
with satisfaction, and Gothon was so overcome that she dropped a plate.
Both fancied that possibly he had spoken to please their self-conceit;
but nevertheless he spoke truly. There are two things in this world
which a man does not often find away from home: the first is good soup;
the second is disinterested love.

If I should attempt here an accurate enumeration of all the dishes that
appeared on the table, there would not be one of my readers whose mouth
would not water. I believe, indeed, that more than on