'And Gagniere?' asked Mahoudeau; 'haven't you seen him?'

'No; I have been here for the last hour.'

Just then Jory, who had remained silent, nudged Sandoz, and directed
his attention to a girl seated with a gentleman at a table at the back
of the room. There were only two other customers present, two
sergeants, who were playing cards. The girl was almost a child, one of
those young Parisian hussies who are as lank as ever at eighteen. She
suggested a frizzy poodle--with the shower of fair little locks that
fell over her dainty little nose, and her large smiling mouth, set
between rosy cheeks. She was turning over the leaves of an illustrated
paper, while the gentleman accompanying her gravely sipped a glass of
Madeira; but every other minute she darted gay glances from over the
newspaper towards the band of artists.

'Pretty, isn't she?' whispered Jory. 'Who is she staring at? Why,
she's looking at me.'

But Fagerolles suddenly broke in: 'I say, no nonsense. Don't imagine
that I have been here for the last hour merely waiting for you.'

The others laughed; and lowering his voice he told them about the
girl, who was named Irma Becot. She was the daughter of a grocer in
the Rue Montorgueil, and had been to school in the neighbourhood till
she was sixteen, writing her exercises between two bags of lentils,
and finishing off her education on her father's doorstep, lolling
about on the pavement, amidst the jostling of the throng, and learning
all about life from the everlasting tittle-tattle of the cooks, who
retailed all the scandal of the neighbourhood while waiting for five