only man left who could stand on the bare back of a horse that was not
thick with resin. But the heart of Andrew Lackaday had nothing to do
with the heart of Francine Dumesnil. He had agreed with the aged Madame
Rocambeau. _Sales types_, both of them.

"If it had been _chagrin d'amour_--sorrow of love, Mademoiselle,"
said he, "I should not have been so insensible to the presence of two such
charming young ladies."

"We are polite, all the same," she remarked approvingly.

She sipped her grenadine. Having nothing further to say he sipped his beer.
Presently she said:

"I saw you this afternoon at the _boite_." He looked at her with a
touch of interest. No one would allude to the music-hall as the "box"
except a fellow professional engaged there.

"You too?" he asked.

She nodded. She belonged to a troupe of dancing girls. As they were the
first number, they got away early. She and her friend had gone for a walk
and found this restaurant. It was gay, wasn't it? He said, soberly:

"You were dancing at rehearsal this morning. You've danced at the
music-hall this afternoon, you'll be dancing again this evening--why do you
dance here?"

"One can only be young once," she replied.