"M. Kangourou, who is that young lady over there, in dark blue?"

"Over there, sir? A young lady called Mdlle. Chrysanthème. She came
with the others you see here; she is only here as a spectator. She
pleases you?" said he with eager suddenness, espying a way out of his
difficulty. Then, forgetting all his politeness, all his
ceremoniousness, all his Japanesery, he takes her by the hand, forces
her to rise, to stand in the dying daylight, to let herself be seen.
And she, who has followed our eyes and begins to guess what is on
foot, lowers her head in confusion, with a more decided but more
charming pout, and tries to step back, half sulky, half smiling.

"It makes no difference," continues M. Kangourou, "it can be arranged
just as well with this one; she is not married either, sir!"

She is not married! Then why didn't the idiot propose her to me at
once instead of the other, for whom I have a feeling of the greatest
pity, poor little soul, with her pearly gray dress, her sprig of
flowers, her expression which grows sadder, and her eyes which twinkle
like those of a child about to cry.

"It can be arranged, sir!" repeats Kangourou again, who at this moment
appears to me a go-between of the lowest type, a rascal of the meanest
kind.

Only, he adds, we, Yves and I, are in the way during the negotiations.
And, while Mdlle. Chrysanthème remains with her eyelids lowered, as
befits the occasion, while the various families, on whose countenances
may be read every degree of astonishment, every phase of expectation,
remain seated in a circle on my white mats, he sends us two into the