And one of the girls had gone, leaving her just sipped grenadine syrup and
seltzer-water. But it had been like some flitting unreality of a dream.

At his blinking recovery the remaining girl laughed again.

"You look like a somnambulist."

He replied: "I beg pardon, Mademoiselle, but I was absorbed in my
reflections."

"Black ones--_hein?_ They have made you little infidelities?"

He frowned. "They? Who do you mean--they?"

"_Un joli garcon is not absorbed in his reflections_"--she mimicked
his tone--"unless there is the finger of a _petite femme_ to stir them
round and darken them."

"Mademoiselle," said he, seriously. "You are quite mistaken. There's not a
woman in the world against whom I have the slightest grudge."

He spoke truly. It was a matter of love, and Mme Coincon's hostility did
not count.

"Word of honour," he added looking into the smiling ironical face.

Love had entered very little into his serious scheme of life. He had had
his entanglements of course. There was Francine Dumesnil, who had fluttered
into the Cirque Rocambeau as a slack wire artist, and after making him vows
of undying affection, had eloped a week afterwards with Hans Petersen, the