to the rigid
authority of Don Marcelo Desnoyers. "Oh, that old man!" exclaimed Julio,
referring to his father. "He may live many years yet, but how he weighs
upon us all!"

His mother, who had never wearied of looking at him, finally had to
bring the interview to an end, frightened by certain approaching sounds.
"Go, he might surprise us, and he would be furious." So Julio had fled
the paternal home, caressed by the tears of the two ladies and the
admiring glances of Chichi, by turns ashamed and proud of a brother who
had caused such enthusiasm and scandal among her friends.

Marguerite also spoke of Senor Desnoyers. A terrible tyrant of the old
school with whom they could never come to an understanding.

The two remained silent, looking fixedly at each other. Now that they
had said the things of greatest urgency, present interests became more
absorbing. More immediate things, unspoken, seemed to well up in their
timid and vacillating eyes, before escaping in the form of words.
They did not dare to talk like lovers here. Every minute the cloud of
witnesses seemed increasing around them. The woman with the dogs and the
red wig was passing with greater frequency, shortening her turns through
the square in order to greet them with a smile of complicity. The
reader of the daily paper was now exchanging views with a friend on a
neighboring bench regarding the possibilities of war. The garden
had become a thoroughfare. The modistes upon going out from their
establishments, and the ladies returning from shopping, were crossing
through the square in order to shorten their walk. The little avenue was
a popular short-cut. All the pedestrians were casting curious glances at
the elegant lady and her companion seated in the shadow of the shrubbery
with the timid yet would-be natural look of those who desire to hide
themselves, yet at the same time feign a casual air.

"How exasperating!" sighed Marguerite. "They are going to find us out!"

A girl looked at her so searchingly that she thought she recognized in
her an employee of a celebrated modiste. Besides, some of her personal
friends who had met her in the crowded shops but an hour ago might be
returning home by way of the garden.

"Let us go," she said rising hurriedly. "If they should spy us here
together, just think what they might say! . . . and just when they are
becoming a little forgetful!"

Desnoyers protested crossly. Go away? . . . Paris had become a shrunken
pl