wandering out of the room with her arm round the waist of Miss
Church. It was a very warm evening; the long windows of the salon
stood wide open into the garden, and, inspired by the balmy darkness,
M. Pigeonneau and Mademoiselle Beaurepas, a most obliging little
woman, who lisped and always wore a huge cravat, declared they would
organise a fete de nuit. They engaged in this undertaking, and the
fete developed itself, consisting of half-a-dozen red paper lanterns,
hung about on the trees, and of several glasses of sirop, carried on
a tray by the stout-armed Celestine. As the festival deepened to its
climax I went out into the garden, where M. Pigeonneau was master of
ceremonies.

"But where are those charming young ladies," he cried, "Miss Ruck and
the new-comer, l'aimable transfuge? Their absence has been remarked,
and they are wanting to the brilliancy of the occasion. Voyez I have
selected a glass of syrup--a generous glass--for Mademoiselle Ruck,
and I advise you, my young friend, if you wish to make a good
impression, to put aside one which you may offer to the other young
lady. What is her name? Miss Church. I see; it's a singular name.
There is a church in which I would willingly worship!"

Mr. Ruck presently came out of the salon, having concluded his
interview with Mrs. Church. Through the open window I saw the latter
lady sitting under the lamp with her German octavo, while Mrs. Ruck,
established, empty-handed, in an arm-chair near her, gazed at her
with an air of fascination.

"Well, I told you she would know what I want," said Mr. Ruck. "She
says I want to go up to Appenzell, wherever that is; that I want to
drink whey and live in a high latitude--what did she call it?--a high