oyale for a walk. That's about their only amusement."

"The mischief!" said the servant, laughing. "If that is all, she
won't ruin her husband, will she?"

"That is all," continued the shop-keeper, "or rather, excuse me, no:
every Saturday, for many years, M. and Mme. Favoral receive a few
of their friends: M. and Mme. Desclavettes, retired dealers in
bronzes, Rue Turenne; M. Chapelain, the old lawyer from the Rue St.
Antoine, whose daughter is Mlle. Gilberte's particular friend; M.
Desormeaux, head clerk in the Department of Justice; and three or
four others; and as this just happens to be Saturday--"

But here he stopped short, and pointing towards the street:

"Quick," said he, "look! Speaking of the--you know--It is twenty
minutes past five, there is M. Favoral coming home."

It was, in fact, the cashier of the Mutual Credit Society, looking
very much indeed as the shop-keeper had described him. Walking with
his head down, he seemed to be seeking upon the pavement the very
spot upon which he had set his foot in the morning, that he might set
it back again there in the evening.

With the same methodical step, he reached his house, walked up the
two pairs of stairs, and, taking out his pass-key, opened the door
of his apartment.

The dwelling was fit for the man; and every thing from the very hall,
betrayed his peculiarities. There, evidently, every piece of
furniture must have its invariable place, every object its irrevocable
shelf or hook. All around were evidences, if not exactly of poverty,
at least of small means, and of the artifices of a respectable
economy. Cleanliness was carried to its utmost limits: every thing
shone. Not a detail but betrayed the industrious hand of the
housekeeper, struggling to defend her furniture against the ravages
of time. The velvet on the chairs was darned at the angles as with
the needle of a fairy. Stitches of new worsted showed through the
faded designs on the hearth-rugs. The curtains had been turned so
as to display their least worn side.

All the guests enumerated by the shop-keeper, and a few others
besides, were in the parlor when M. Favoral came in. But, instead
of returning their greeting:

"Where is Maxence?" he inquired.

"I am expecting him, my dear," said Mme. Favoral gently.

"Always behind time," he scolded. "It is too trifling."

His daughter, Mlle. Gilberte, interrupted him:

"Where is my bouquet, father?" she asked.

M. Favoral sto