had to come to my sister," she said: "I couldn't leave her alone."
My mother, I'm sorry to say, was not always just to my aunt. She used to lose patience with her sister's want of coquetry, of ambition, of desire to make much of herself. She divined wherein my aunt had offended. "You're very devoted to your sister, suddenly," she said. "There are duties and duties, mademoiselle. I'm very much obliged to you for reading to me. You can put down the book."
"The Vicomte swore very hard when you went out," my father went on.
Mlle. de Bergerac laid aside her book. "Dear me!" she said, "if he was going to swear, it's very well I went."
"Are you afraid of the Vicomte?" said my mother. "You're twenty-two years old. You're not a little girl."
"Is she twenty-two?" cried my father. "I told him she was twenty-one."
"Frankly, brother," said Mlle. de Bergerac,
