ill had
its bald spots. What struck the painter were some good pictures on the
walls, a Courbet, and, above all, an unfinished study by Delacroix. So
this wild, wilful creature was not altogether a fool, although there
was a frightful cat in coloured _biscuit_ standing on a console in the
drawing-room.

When Jory spoke of sending the valet to his friend's place, she
exclaimed in great surprise:

'What! you are married?'

'Why, yes,' said Claude, simply.

She glanced at Jory, who smiled; then she understood, and added:

'Ah! But why did people tell me that you were a woman-hater? I'm awfully
vexed, you know. I frightened you, don't you remember, eh? You still
think me very ugly, don't you? Well, well, we'll talk about it all some
other day.'

It was the coachman who went to the Rue de Douai with a note from
Claude, for the valet had opened the door of the dining-room, to
announce that lunch was served. The repast, a very delicate one, was
partaken of in all propriety, under the icy stare of the servant. They
talked about the great building works that were revolutionising Paris;
and then discussed the price of land, like middle-class people with
money to invest. But at dessert, when they were all three alone with the
coffee and liqueurs, which they had decided upon taking there, without
leaving the table, they gradually became animated, and dropped into
their old familiar ways, as if they had met each other at the Cafe
Baudequin.

'Ah, my lads,' said Irma, 'this is the only real enjoyment, to be jolly
together and to snap one's fingers at other people.'

She was twisting cigarettes; she had just placed the bottle of
chartreuse near her, and had begun to empty it, looking the while very
flushed, and lapsing once more to her low street drollery.

'So,' continued Jory, who was apologising for not having sent her that
morning a book she wanted, 'I was going to buy it last night at about
ten o'clock, when I met Fagerolles--'

'You are telling a lie,' said she, interrupting him in a clear voice.
And to cut short his protestations--'Fagerolles was here,' she added,
'so you see that you are telling a lie.'

Then, turning to Claude, 'No, it's too disgusting. You can't conceive
what a liar he is. He tells lies like a woman, for the pleasure of it,
for the merest trifle. Now, the whole of his story amounts simply to
this: that he didn't want to spend three francs to buy me that book.
Each time he was to have sent me a