gesture of sheer twentieth-century artisticity. Constance had to laugh in spite of herself.
"And Henri?" asked Constance.
Emilie suddenly turned very red:
"What do you mean?"
"What does Henri do?"
"He does . . ."
"Nothing? . . ."
"No. He does something. But don't ask me to tell you."
"Why can't you tell me?"
"You wouldn't understand. Henri is making money, a lot of money."
"What at?"
"I can't tell you, Auntie. It's not my secret, you see: it's his."
"Is it a secret?"
"Yes, it's a secret."
"Then I won't ask."
"It's a secret . . . to the others. Perhaps not . . . to you."
She was burning to let it out.
"I don't ask you to tell me, Emilie."
"I'll tell you . . . if you promise me not to tell anybody else . . . not a soul! Henri is . . . a clown!"
"Emilie! No!"
"Yes, he's a clown."
"No! . . . No!"
