is said
and done, Nana licked her to fits!

"Yesterday evening," Mme Hugon was saying, "Georges took me to the play.
Yes, we went to the Varietes, where I certainly had not set foot for the
last ten years. That child adores music. As to me, I wasn't in the least
amused, but he was so happy! They put extraordinary pieces on the stage
nowadays. Besides, music delights me very little, I confess."

"What! You don't love music, madame?" cried Mme du Joncquoy, lifting her
eyes to heaven. "Is it possible there should be people who don't love
music?"

The exclamation of surprise was general. No one had dropped a single
word concerning the performance at the Varietes, at which the good Mme
Hugon had not understood any of the allusions. The ladies knew the piece
but said nothing about it, and with that they plunged into the realm
of sentiment and began discussing the masters in a tone of refined and
ecstatical admiration. Mme du Joncquoy was not fond of any of them
save Weber, while Mme Chantereau stood up for the Italians. The ladies'
voices had turned soft and languishing, and in front of the hearth
one might have fancied one's self listening in meditative, religious
retirement to the faint, discreet music of a little chapel.

"Now let's see," murmured Vandeuvres, bringing Fauchery back into the
middle of the drawing room, "notwithstanding it all, we must invent a
woman for tomorrow. Shall we ask Steiner about it?"

"Oh, when Steiner's got hold of a woman," said the journalist, "it's
because Paris has done with her."

Vandeuvres, however, was searching about on every side.

"Wait a bit," he continued, "the other day I met Foucarmont with a
charming blonde. I'll go and tell him to bring her."

And he called to Foucarmont. They exchanged a few words rapidly. There
must have been some sort of complication, for both of them, moving
carefully forward and stepping over the dresses of the ladies, went off
in quest of another young man with whom they continued the discussion
in the embrasure of a window. Fauchery was left to himself and had just
decided to proceed to the hearth, where Mme du Joncquoy was announcing
that she never heard Weber played without at the same time seeing lakes,
forests and sunrises over landscapes steeped in dew, when a hand touched
his shoulder and a voice behind him remarked:

"It's not civil of you."

"What d'you mean?" he asked, turning round and recognizing La Faloise.

"Why, about that supp