in her eyes and transfigured her features.

"Am I to your taste?" she said.

I manifested by I know not what movement an assent, which was moreover but
too evident to the keen eye of a woman.

"I was looking for you," she added, "to show you the conservatory; it's
fairy-like. Come!"

She took my arm, and we started in the direction of the conservatory door
which opened at the other end of the parlor, extending as far as the park,
through the vines and the perfumes of hundreds of exotic plants, all the
splendors of the feast. While we were admiring the effect of the
girandoles that sparkled amid the luxuriant tropical flora like the bright
constellations of another hemisphere, several gentlemen came to claim
Madame de Palme's hand for a waltz; she refused them all, though I was
sufficiently disinterested to join my entreaties to theirs.

"Our respective roles seem to me somewhat inverted," she said: "it is I
who am detaining you, and you wish to get rid of me!"

"Heaven preserve me from such an idea! but I am afraid lest you may
deprive yourself, out of kindness to me, of a pleasure you are so fond
of."

"No! I know very well that I seek you and you avoid me. It is rather
absurd in the eyes of the world, but I care nothing for that. For this one
evening at least, I mean to amuse myself as I like. I forbid you to
disturb my happiness. I am really very happy. I have everything I
require--beautiful flowers, excellent music around me, and a friend at my
side. Only--and that's a dark spot on my blue sky--I am much more certain
of the music and the flowers than I am of the friend."

"You are entirely wrong."

"Explain your conduct, then, once for all. Why will you never talk
seriously with me? Why do you obstinately refuse to tell me one single
word that savors of confidence, of intimacy--of friendship, in a word?"

"Please reflect for a minute, madam; where would that lead us to?"

"What is that to you? That would lead us where it would. It is singular
that you should be more anxious about it than I am."

"Come, what would you think of me if I ventured to speak of love to you?"

"I don't ask you to make love to me!" she said, sharply.

"I know it, madam; and yet it is the inevitable turn my language would
take if it ceased for a moment to be frivolous and commonplace. Now, admit
that there is one man in the world who could not speak of love to you
without incurring your contempt, and that I am that very man. I