for ever--that
would be heaven. I am a Frenchman; I have a soul; I can feel.'

'Should you be afraid to die a sudden death, Mr. Saintou?' said the
quick voice from the depths of a shower of water.

'Ciel! We do not speak of such things, mademoiselle. There will come a
time, I know, when my hair will turn grey; then for the sake of my
profession I shall be obliged to dye it. There will come a time after
that when I shall die; but we do not even think of these things, it is
better not.'

'But should you be afraid to die now?' persisted the girl.

'Very much afraid,' said the hairdresser candidly.

'Then don't feel, Mr. Saintou. I never feel. I make it the business of
my life not to feel. They tell me there is something wrong at my heart,
and that if I ever feel either glad or sorry I shall go off, pop, like a
crow from a tree when it is shot, like a spark that falls into water.'

The hairdresser meditated upon this for some time. He did not believe
her. He had drawn the bright hair back now from the water, and was
fondling it with his whitest and softest towels.

'Who was it that said to mademoiselle that her heart was bad?'

'Good gracious, Mr. Saintou, my heart is not bad. I know my catechism
and go to church, and cook my father's dinner every day, and a very good
dinner it is too. What put it into your head that I had a bad heart?'

'Pardon! mademoiselle; I mistake. Who told mademoiselle that she was
sick at heart?'

'Good gracious heavens! I am not sick at heart. To be sure my mother is
dead, and my sister is ill, and my father is as cross as two sticks, but
for all that I am not heart-sick. I like this world very well, and when
I feel sad I put more onions into the soup.'

Saintou went on with his work for some time in silence, then he tried
again. 'You say I speak good English, and I flatter myself I have the
accent very well, but what avails if I cannot make you understand? Was
it a good doctor who said mademoiselle's heart was affected; touched, I
might say?'

There was a shout of laughter from under the shower of gold.

'My heart touched! One would think I was in love. No, my heart is not
touched yet; least of all by you, Mr. Saintou.

'Least of all by you,
Mr. Saintou.'

She repeated this last rhyming couplet with a quaint musical intonation,
as though it was the refrain of a song, and after her voice and
laughter had died away she went on nodding her head in time to the
bru