The mystery which French people are fond of attaching to harmless
trifles is inconceivable. One evening, in the earlier part of our stay
in Paris, a cousin of Miss St. Clair's, who was in the same hotel with
Mr. Denham, called on us, and when he was taking leave she held out an
unsealed note: "Will you give this to Fred? Don't forget it."

Madame Le Fort was thunderstruck: "Is it possible? Send a note to a
young gentleman right before Madame Fleming and all of us!"

"Why," said I, "do young people never write notes to each other in
France?" "Not openly like that--little three-cornered notes to slip
into the hand while dancing."

"This is the way to fold them," said Clarice, taking up a small sheet of
paper. "You see that will just fit into the hollow of the hand, and
nobody could ever see it."

"I like our way much better. What is done openly is not half so
mischievous."

"Nor half so interesting," rejoined Clarice.

The nimble hours danced on, as they had a trick of doing in Madame Le
Fort's salon. "I am afraid you forget the three balls, M. Vergniaud."

"How can you be so cruel, mademoiselle? I shall only make my compliments
to the hostess and dance one set at each. I never do more except when I
come here."