Oh! her aunt understood the feelings of the heart; she even compassionated the button manufacturer, this elderly gentleman, who looked so respectable, for, after all, sentimental feelings are more deeply rooted among people of a certain age.

Still she watched.

And, yes, he would have to pass over her body before stealing her niece.
One evening she approached the gentleman, and told him, as straight as a bullet, that his conduct was most improper.

He bowed to her politely without answering, like an old satyr who was accustomed to hear parents tell him to go about his business.

She really could not be cross with him, he was too well mannered.
Then came lectures on love, allusions to dirty blackguards of men, and all sorts of stories about hussies who had repented of flirtations, which left Nana in a state of pouting, with eyes gleaming brightly in her pale face.
One day, however, in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonniere the button manufacturer ventured to poke his nose between the aunt and the niece to whisper some things which ought not to have been said.