"Ah! my dear Monsieur Cardot, what happiness it is for fathers and mothers when their children make a good start in life! In this respect--indeed, in all others," she added, catching herself up, "you are one of the most fortunate fathers I have ever known.

Under your virtuous son-in-law and your amiable daughter, the Cocon d'Or continues to be the greatest establishment of its kind in Paris.

And here's your eldest son, for the last ten years at the head of a fine practice and married to wealth.

And you have such charming little granddaughters! You are, as it were, the head of four great families.

Leave us, Oscar; go and look at the garden, but don't touch the flowers." "Why, he's eighteen years old!" said uncle Cardot, smiling at this injunction, which made an infant of Oscar.
"Alas, yes, he is eighteen, my good Monsieur Cardot; and after bringing him so far, sound and healthy in mind and body, neither bow-legged nor crooked, after sacrificing everything to give him an education, it would be hard if I could not see him on the road to fortune." "That Monsieur Moreau who got him the scholarship will be sure to look after his career," said uncle Cardot, concealing his hypocrisy under an air of friendly good-humor.
"Monsieur Moreau may die," she said.