"Does your engagement for eight o'clock press, monsieur?" murmured the
lady, smiling. "If you could dine here again to-night, I might relent
by degrees."

"And she is adorable!" he told Pitou. "I passed the most delicious
evening of my life!" "It is fortunate," observed Pitou, "for that, and
your uncle's undying enmity, are all you have obtained by your
imposture. Remember that the evening cost two thousand francs a year!"

"Ah, misanthrope," cried Tricotrin radiantly, "there must be a crumpled
roseleaf in every Eden!"



THE FATAL FLOROZONDE

Before Pitou, the composer, left for the Hague, he called on Theophile
de Fronsac, the poet. _La Voix Parisienne_ had lately appointed de
Fronsac to its staff, on condition that he contributed no poetry.

"Good-evening," said de Fronsac. "Mon Dieu! what shall I write about?"

"Write about my music," said Pitou, whose compositions had been
rejected in every arrondissement of Paris.

"Let us talk sanely," demurred de Fronsac. "My causerie is half a
column short. Tell me something interesting."

"Woman!" replied Pitou.