"Poor Grandmamma!" she said. "Poor Grandmother! She called our family a grandeur déchue. And she is right, from her point of view. I am very sorry for her. I found her sitting there so melancholy, so forlorn; and the tears were running down her cheeks. . . . Auntie, you're a darling; I feel that you are better than I. But I can't live here. Your trouble made you want to come back. Mine made me want to get away. You felt that there were bonds that drew you here. I felt, on the contrary, that I must throw off every bond. My life began with a mistake."
"So did mine."
"Is it always like that?"
"Often . . . often. . . ."
"Don't we know ourselves, then . . . when we begin to live? . . ."
"No, every truth comes to us later, much later. . . ."
"Then you don't think that I know my truth?"
"No, Emilie."
"You are not pleased with me?"
"Pleased, child? It is not for me to judge you. All I say is, take care. Don't play with your life. Don't waste it. Our life is a very serious thing; and you treat it as . . ."
"As what, Auntie?"
"An artistic caprice."
"How well you have put it, Auntie! I never
