more, nor her hair tangled. Her eyes, though, are still the same
velvety, half-drooping eyes, always opening and shutting and never
still.

As she springs into the boat and pulls towards me I note how round and
trim she is, and before we have landed at Madame Laguerre's feet I have
counted up Lucette's birthdays,--those that I know myself,--and find to
my surprise that she must be eighteen. We have always been the best of
friends, Lucette and I, ever since she looked over my shoulder years ago
and watched me dot in the outlines of her boat, with her dog Mustif
sitting demurely in the bow.

Madame, her mother, begins again:--

"Do you know that it is Saturday that you come again to bother? Now it
will be a _filet_, of course, with mushrooms and tomato salad; and there
are no mushrooms, and no tomatoes, and nothing. You are horrible. Then,
when I get it ready, you say you will come at three. 'Yes, madame; at
three,'--mimicking me,--'sure, very sure.' But it is four, five,
o'clock--and then everything is burned up waiting. Ah! I know you."

This goes on always, and has for years. Presently she softens, for she
is the most tender-hearted of women, and would do anything in the world
to please me.

"But, then, you will be tired, and of course you must have something. I
remember now there is a chicken. How will the chicken do? Oh, the
chicken it is lovely, _charmant_. And some pease--fresh. Monsieur picked
them himself this morning. And some Roquefort, with an olive. Ah! You
leave it to me; but at three--no later--not one minute. _Sacré! Vous