als met with her mother's approval, the shy girl's objections--
nervousness, lack of talent, and so forth--being overruled by Madame
Bourjot. Before the two families parted it was arranged that Noemi
should be taken by her governess to attend the rehearsals at the
Mauperins' house.

Renee's whole-hearted friendliness and sparkling humour soon overcame
Noemi's reserve, and under Denoisel's direction the amateur actors made
rapid progress. Madame Bourjot herself came to one of the rehearsals,
and, after the first compliments, expressed her surprise that Henri, the
principal actor, was absent. "Oh, he has a wonderful memory," said his
proud mother; "two rehearsals will set him right."

At last the great day arrived. A stage had been arranged in the large
drawing-room, which was filled to its utmost capacity, the ladies being
seated in the long rows of chairs, the men standing behind and
overflowing through open doors into the adjoining rooms. The play chosen
was "The Caprice." Henri, who revealed rare talent, took the part of the
husband; Noemi of the neglected wife. The curtain fell upon enthusiastic
applause, and Madame Bourjot, who had feared that her daughter would be
a fiasco, was delighted with her success. Amid the hum of voices she
heard the lady sitting next to her say to her neighbour, "His sister, I
know ... but for the part he is not sufficiently in love with her ...
and too much with his wife. Did you notice?" she continued, in a
whisper.

In the second piece Henri appeared as Pierrot, Renee as the forsaken
wife, and Noemi as the beloved. Henri played with real passion. From
time to time his eyes seemed to search for Madame Bourjot's. Her
neighbour felt her leaning against her shoulder. The curtain fell.
Madame Bourjot swayed, and fell back in a faint.

She was carried to the garden.

"Leave me now," she said, "I am all right now; it was the heat. I only
want a little air ... Let M. Henri stay with me."

They were left alone.

"You love her?" said Madame Bourjot, clutching Henri's arm. "I know
all.... Have you nothing to say?"

"Nothing. I have struggled for a year. I will not excuse myself. I owe
you the truth. I love your daughter, it is true."

Finally, Madame Bourjot rose and walked towards the house. Henri
followed.

"I count upon never seeing you again, sir," she said, without looking
round. With a mighty effort she regained her composure, and walked back
to the house on Henri's arm.

_I