e was not near a table, she did not know
where to put it. He rushed toward her:

"Allow me, Madame."

"Thank you, sir."

He took away the cup and returned: "If you, but knew, Madame, what
pleasant moments 'La Vie Francaise' afforded me, when I was in the
desert! It is indeed the only paper one cares to read outside of
France; it contains everything."

She smiled with amiable indifference as she replied: "M. Walter had a
great deal of trouble in producing the kind of journal which was
required."

They talked of Paris, the suburbs, the Seine, the delights of summer,
of everything they could think of. Finally M. Norbert de Varenne
advanced, a glass of liqueur in his hand, and Duroy discreetly
withdrew. Mme. de Marelle, who was chatting with her hostess, called
him: "So, sir," she said bluntly, "you are going to try journalism?"
That question led to a renewal of the interrupted conversation with
Mme. Walter. In her turn Mme. de Marelle related anecdotes, and
becoming familiar, laid her hand upon Duroy's arm. He felt that he
would like to devote himself to her, to protect her--and the slowness
with which he replied to her questions indicated his preoccupation.
Suddenly, without any cause, Mme. de Marelle called: "Laurine!" and the
girl came to her. "Sit down here, my child, you will be cold near the
window."

Duroy was seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if part
of that embrace would revert to the mother. He asked in a gallant, yet
paternal tone: "Will you permit me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?" The
child raised her eyes with an air of surprise. Mme. de Marelle said
with a smile: "Reply."

"I will allow you to-day, Monsieur, but not all the time."

Seating himself, Duroy took Laurine upon his knee, and kissed her lips
and her fine wavy hair. Her mother was surprised: "Well, that is
strange! Ordinarily she only allows ladies to caress her. You are
irresistible, Monsieur!"

Duroy colored, but did not reply.

When Mme. Forestier joined them, a cry of astonishment escaped her:
"Well, Laurine has become sociable; what a miracle!"

The young man rose to take his leave, fearing he might spoil his
conquest by some awkward word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped and
gently pressed their hands, and then shook hands with the men. He
observed that Jacques Rival's was dry and warm and responded cordially
to his pressure; Norbert de Varenne's was moist and cold and slipped
through his fingers; Walter's was col