could have thought possible, a _bonâ fide_ marriage.

"But what fault do I find with the little girl?" asks M. Kangourou, in
consternation.

I endeavor to present the matter in the most flattering light:

"She is very young," I say; "and then she is too white, too much like
our own women. I wished for a yellow one just as a change."

"But that is only the paint they have put on her, sir! Beneath it, I
assure you, she is yellow."

Yves leans towards me and whispers:

"Look over there, brother, in that corner by the last panel; have you
noticed the one who is sitting down?"

Not I. In my annoyance I had not observed her; she had her back to the
light, was dressed in dark colors, and sat in the careless attitude of
one who keeps in the background. The fact is this one pleased me much
better. Eyes with long lashes, rather narrow, but which would have
been called good in any country in the world; almost an expression,
almost a thought. A coppery tint on her rounded cheeks; a straight
nose; slightly thick lips, but well modeled and with pretty corners.
Less young than Mdlle. Jasmin, about eighteen years of age perhaps,
already more of a woman. She wore an expression of ennui, also of a
little contempt, as if she regretted her attendance at a spectacle
which dragged so much, and was so little amusing.