know."

"You are very kind. We will see."

She seemed to retire within herself, intent on following the service,
and on saying nothing more. Pauline had taken Jeanne beside her that
she might be nearer the hot-air flue over which she toasted herself
luxuriously, as happy as any chilly mortal could be. Steeped in the
warm air, the two girls raised themselves inquisitively and gazed
around on everything, the low ceiling with its woodwork panels, the
squat pillars, connected by arches from which hung chandeliers, and
the pulpit of carved oak; and over the ocean of heads which waved with
the rise and fall of the canticle, their eyes wandered towards the
dark corners of the aisles, towards the chapels whose gilding faintly
gleamed, and the baptistery enclosed by a railing near the chief
entrance. However, their gaze always returned to the resplendent
choir, decorated with brilliant colors and dazzling gilding. A crystal
chandelier, flaming with light, hung from the vaulted ceiling; immense
candelabra, filled with rows of wax tapers, that glittered amidst the
gloom of the church like a profusion of stars in orderly array,
brought out prominently the high altar, which seemed one huge bouquet
of foliage and flowers. Over all, standing amidst a profusion of
roses, a Virgin, dressed in satin and lace, and crowned with pearls,
was holding a Jesus in long clothes on her arm.

"I say, are you warm?" asked Pauline. "It's nice, eh?"

But Jeanne, in ecstasy, was gazing on the Virgin amongst the flowers.
The scene thrilled her. A fear crept over her that she might do
something wrong, and she lowered her eyes in the endeavor to restrain
her tears by fixing her attention on the black-and-white pavement. The
vibrations of the choir-boys' shrill voices seemed to stir her tresses
like puffs of air.

Meanwhile Helene, with face bent over her prayer-book, drew herself
away whenever Juliette's lace rustled against her. She was in no wise
prepared for this meeting. Despite the vow she had sworn within
herself, to be ever pure in her love for Henri, and never yield to
him, she felt great discomfort at the thought that she was a
traitoress to the confiding, happy woman who sat by her side. She was
possessed by one idea--she would not go to that dinner. She sought for
reasons which would enable her to break off these relations so hateful
to her honor. But the swelling voices of the choristers, so near to
her, drove all reflection from her min