Just then the clock struck seven, and he started up.  Seven o’clock, and he had not even changed his clothes.  Nervous and breathless, he undressed, put on a clean shirt, hastily finished his toilet, as if he had been expected in the next room for some event of extreme importance, and went into the drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear.  He glanced at the newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then sat down again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed, brushed, and smiling.  Parent took him up in his arms and kissed him passionately; then he tossed him into the air, and held him up to the ceiling, but soon sat down again, as he was tired with all his exertion.  Then, taking George on his knee, he made him ride a-cock-horse.  The child laughed and clapped his hands and shouted with pleasure, as did his father, who laughed until his big stomach shook, for it amused him almost more than it did the child.

Parent loved him with all the heart of a weak, resigned, ill-used man.  He loved him with mad bursts of affection, with caresses and with all the bashful tenderness which was hidden in him, and which had never found an outlet, even at the early period of his married life, for his wife had always shown herself cold and reserved.

Just then Julie came to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes, and said in a voice which trembled with exasperation:  “It is half-past seven, monsieur.”

Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and replied:  “Yes, it certainly is half-past seven.”

“Well, my dinner is quite ready now.”

Seeing the storm which was coming, he tried to turn it aside.  “But did you not tell me when I came in that it would not be ready before eight?”

“Eight! what are you thinking about?  You surely do not mean to let the child dine at eight o’clock?  It would ruin his stomach.  Just suppose that he only had his mother to look after him!  She cares a great deal about her child.  Oh, yes, we will speak about her; she is a mother!  What a pity it is that there should be any mothers like her!”

Parent thought it was time to cut short a threatened scene.  “Julie,” he said, “I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress.  You understand me, do you not?  Do not forget it in the future.”

The old servant, who was nearly choked with surprise, turned and went out, slamming the door so violently after her that the lustres on the chandelier rattled, and for some seconds it sounded as if a number of little invisible bells were ringing in the drawing-room.

Eight o’clock struck, the door opened, and Julie came in again.  She had lost her look of exasperation, but now she put on an air of cold and determined resolution, which was still more formidable.

“Monsieur,” she said, “I served your mother until the day of her death, and I have attended to you from your birth until now, and I think it may be said that I am devoted to the family.”  She waited for a reply, and Parent stammered: