"Come, come," says the middle-aged lady, briskly, "let us make an end to
this play-acting, and, young fellow, let us have a sniff at you. No, you
are not tipsy, after all. Well, I am glad of that. So let us get to the
bottom of this business. What do they call you when you are at home?"

"Florian de Puysange," he answered, speaking meekly enough. This capable
large person was to the young man rather intimidating.

"La!" said she. She looked at him very hard. She nodded gravely two or
three times, so that her double chin opened and shut. "Yes, and you favor
him. How old are you?"

He told her twenty-four.

She said, inconsequently: "So I was a fool, after all. Well, young man,
you will never be as good-looking as your father, but I trust you have an
honester nature. However, bygones are bygones. Is the old rascal still
living? and was it he that had the impudence to send you to me?"

"My father, madame, was slain at the battle of Marchfeld--"

"Some fifty years ago! And you are twenty-four. Young man, your
parentage had unusual features, or else we are at cross-purposes. Let us
start at the beginning of this. You tell us you are called Florian de
Puysange and that you have been drinking in queer company. Now let us
have the whole story."

Florian told of last night's happenings, with no more omissions than
seemed desirable with feminine auditors.