midnight I depart from myself, I depart psychologically--the Achille
Flamant of the Hitherto will be no more."

"I understand," said madame Aurore, moved. "As you say, in my own way I
am an artist, too, there is a bond between us. Poor fellow, it is
indeed a crisis in your life!... Who put the crape bows on the
bottles? they are badly tied. Shall I tie them properly for you?"

"It would be a sweet service," said Flamant, "and I should be grateful.
How gentle you are to me--pomade, bows, nothing is too much for you!"

"You must give me your Nantes address," she said, "and I will post the
pot without fail."

"I shall always keep it," he vowed--"not the pomade, but the pot--as a
souvenir. Will you write a few lines to me at the same time?"

Her gaze was averted; she toyed with her spoon. "The directions will be
on the label," she said timidly.

"It was not of my eyebrows I was thinking," murmured the man.

"What should I say? The latest quotation for artificial lashes, or a
development in dimple culture, would hardly be engrossing to you."

"I am inclined to believe that anything that concerned you would
engross me."

"It would be so unconventional," she objected dreamily.