the small hours to the tattered aunt who lived on her, she exclaimed
violently that, "All this silly fake was giving her the hump, and that
she wished she were 'on the road' again, with a jolly good fellow who
was not afraid of her!"

Then the tattered aunt cooed to her, reminding her that little
ducklings had run to her already roasted, and adding that she (the
tattered aunt) had never heard of equal luck in all the years she had
been in the show business.

"Ah, zut!" cried Florozonde. "It does not please me to be treated as if
I had scarlet fever. If I lean towards a man, he turns pale."

"Life is good," said her aunt philosophically, "and men have no wish to
die for the sake of an embrace--remember your reputation! II faut
souffrir pour etre fatale. Look at your salary, sweetie--and you have
had nothing to do but hold your tongue! Ah, was anything ever heard
like it? A miracle of le bon Dieu!"

"It was monsieur de Fronsac, the journalist, who started it," said
Florozonde. "I supposed he had made it up, to give me a lift; but, ma
foi, I think _he_ half believes it, too! What can have put it in
his head? I have a mind to ask him the next time he comes behind."

"What a madness!" exclaimed the old woman; "you might queer your pitch!
Never, never perform a trick with a confederate when you can work
alone; that is one of the first rules of life. If he thinks it is true,
so much the better. Now get to bed, lovey, and think of pleasant
things--what did you have for supper?"