Suddenly, however, she appeared to recollect something she had
forgotten.

"Come, give me my shoe," she said. "I am going now."

He was playing dreamily with the light shoe, turning it over
abstractedly in his hands. He leaned over, kissed the foot, which
appeared to float between the skirt and the rug, and which, a little
chilled by the air, no longer moved restlessly about; then he slipped
on the shoe, and Madame de Guilleroy, rising, approached the table,
on which were scattered papers, open letters, old and recent, beside
a painter's inkstand, in which the ink had dried. She looked at it all
with curiosity, touched the papers, and lifted them to look underneath.

Bertin approached her, saying:

"You will disarrange my disorder."

Without replying to this, she inquired:

"Who is the gentleman that wishes to buy your _Baigneuses_?"

"An American whom I do not know."

"Have you come to an agreement about the _Chanteuse des rues_?"

"Yes. Ten thousand."

"You did well. It was pretty, but not exceptional. Good-by, dear."