Poor Monsieur Robineau, who had put out his glass to be refilled, paused
and looked helplessly at his wife.

"_Mon cher ange_,...." he began; but she shook her head inflexibly, and
Monsieur Robineau submitted with the air of a man who knows that from
the sentence of the supreme court there is no appeal.

"_Dâme_!" whispered Madame Roquet, with a confidential attack upon my
ribs that gave me a pain in my side for half an hour after, "my brother
has the heart of a rabbit. He gives way to her in everything--so much
the worse for him. My blessed man, who was a saint of a husband, would
have broken the bowl over my ears if I had dared to interfere between
his glass and his mouth!"

Whereupon Madame Roquet filled her own glass and mine, and Madame
Robineau, less indulgent to her husband than herself, followed
our example.

Just at this moment, a confused hubbub of voices, and other sounds
expressive of a _fracas_, broke out in the direction of the trees behind
the orchestra. The dancers deserted their polka, the musicians stopped
fiddling, the noisy supper-party in the next arbor abandoned their cold
chicken and salad, and everybody ran to the scene of action. Dalrymple
was on his feet in a moment; but Suzette held André back with both hands
and implored him to stay.

"Some _mauvais sujets_, no doubt, who refuse to pay the score,"
suggested Madame Roquet.

"Or Sullivan, who has got into one of his infernal scrapes," muttered