it on, nor can
one maintain his resentment at the highest pitch while sitting down.
There was this much gained by Mlle. Fouchette's diplomacy.

But the first glance about the room restored the father's
belligerency. He saw the elaborately laid table, the flowers, the
wine----

"I am honored, monsieur," he said to his son, sarcastically, "though I
had no idea that you expected me."

"It is--er--I had a friend----"

"Oh! I know quite well I have no reason to anticipate such a royal
welcome. Yet there are three plates----"

"That was for Fouchette," said Jean, hastily and unthinkingly. "You
will be welcome at my humble table, father."

"Fouchette,"--he had noticed the glance at the girl, now making a
pretence of arranging the table,--"and so this is Fouchette, eh? And
your humble table, eh?"

The irascible old gentleman regarded both of the adjuncts of life de
garcon with a bitter smile. Still it was something like a smile, and
the girl was quick to take advantage of it.

"Oh, this is a special occasion, monsieur,--a reconciliation dinner."

"A reconciliation dinner, eh?" growled the old man, suspicious of some
sly allusion to himself and son. "And will you be good enough to speak
for this dummy here and inform me who is to be reconciled and what the
devil you've got to do with the operation?"

"To be sure!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, with affected gayety. "Only I
must begin at the last first. I'm the next-door neighbor of Monsieur
Jean, your son, and I take care of his rooms for him--for a
consideration. My appartement is over there, monsieur, if you please.
We are poor, but we must eat----"

"And drink champagne," put in the elder Marot, significantly.

"Is not champagne more fitting for the reconciliation of two men who
were once friends than would be violent words?" she asked, with
spirit.

"Who pays for it? It depends upon who pays for it!" He tried to ward
off the conclusion by hurling this at both of them.

Jean reddened. He knew quite well the insinuation. It is not an
unusual thing for Frenchmen to live on the product of a woman's shame.

"As if you should ask me if I were a thief, father!" protested the
young man, now scarcely able to restrain his tears.

"And as if we had not pinched and saved and economized and all that!
And can you look around you and not see that?" She had hard work to
smother her indignation.

"Come to the point!" retorted the elder Marot, impatiently. "The
woman! Where i