am closing over and enfolding us.

We spoke in murmurs. The open window let in the warm evening air and the
confused roar of the city.

"I am to be your friend and counsellor?" said she.

"Always."

"You promise that you will ask my advice in all things, and that we shall
act in concert?"

"I do."

"If this very first evening I ask you for a proof of this, you won't be
angry?"

"On the contrary."

"Well, from what you have told me of your uncle, you seem to have
accepted the second condition, of making up your quarrel, rather
lightly."

"I have only promised to do my best."

"Yes, but my father counts upon your success. How do you intend to act?"

"I haven't yet considered."

"That's just what I foresaw, and I thought it would perhaps be a good
thing if we considered it together."

"Mademoiselle, I am listening; compose the plan of campaign, and I will
criticise it."

Jeanne clasped her hands over her knees and assumed a thoughtful look.

"Suppose you wrote to him."

"There is every chance that he would not answer."

"Reply paid?"

"Mademoiselle, you are laughing; you are no counsellor any longer."

"Yes, I am. Let us be serious. Suppose you go to see him."

"That's a better idea. He may perhaps receive me."

"In that case you will capture him. If you can only get a man to
listen--"

"Not my uncle, Mademoiselle. He will listen, and do you know what his
answer will be?"

"What?"

"This, or something like it: 'My worthy nephew, you have come to tell me
two things, have you not? First, that you are about to marry a
Parisienne; secondly, that you renounce forever the family practice. You
merely confirm and aggravate our difference. You have taken a step
further backward. It was not worth while your coming out of your way to
tell me this, and you may return as soon as you please.'"

"You surprise me. There must be some way of getting at him, if he is
really good-hearted, as you say. If I could see your uncle I should soon
find out a way."

"If you could see him! Yes, that would be the best way of all; it
couldn't help succeeding. He imagines you as a flighty Parisienne; he is
afraid of you; he is more angry with me for loving you than for refusing
to carry on his practice. If he could only see you, he would soon forgive
me."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Do you think that if I were to look him in the face, as I now look at
you, and to say to him: 'Monsieur Mouillard, will you