passed from my sight, quickly hidden from me by the increasing
crowd; yet I heard the voice a moment more, but fragmentarily:
"Don't you see how ashamed he is, how he must have been starving
before he did that, or that someone dependent on him needed--"

I caught no more, but the sweetness that this beautiful lady
understood and felt for the poor absurd wretch was so great that
I could have wept. I had not seen her face; I had not looked up
--even when she went.

"Who is she?" cried a scoundrel voyous, just as she turned.
"Madame of the parasol? A friend of monsieur of the ornamented
head?"

"No. It is the first lady in waiting to his wife, Madame la
Duchesse," answered a second. "She has been sent with an equerry
to demand of monseigneur if he does not wish a little sculpture
upon his dome as well as the colour decorations!"

"'Tis true, my ancient?" another asked of me.

I made no repartee, continuing to sit with my chin dependent
upon my cravat, but with things not the same in my heart as
formerly to the arrival of that grey pongee, the grey glove, and
the beautiful voice.

Since King Charles the Mad, in Paris no one has been completely
free from lunacy while the spring-time is happening. There is
something in the sun and the banks of the Seine. The Parisians
drink sweet and fruity champagne because the good wines are