She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling.
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