talking to him. Yet she was never quite satisfied unless he was present.
She counted the days from one Wednesday to another, for on Wednesdays he
always dined with them, and she greeted any opportunity of seeing him on
other days as a great pleasure. This week, for example, would be marked
with a white stone. She would have seen him twice. For half an hour
Marien had been enduring the bore of the reception, standing silent and
self-absorbed in the midst of the gay talk, which did not interest him.
He wished to escape, but was always kept from doing so by some word or
sign from Madame de Nailles. Jacqueline had been thinking: "Oh! if he
would only come and talk to us!" He was now drawing near them, and an
instinct made her wish to rush up to him and tell him--what should she
tell him? She did not know. A few moments before so many things to tell
him had been passing through her brain.

What she said was: "Monsieur Marien, I recommend to you these little
spiced cakes." And, with some awkwardness, because her hand was
trembling, she held out the plate to him.

"No, thank you, Mademoiselle," he said, affecting a tone of great
ceremony, "I prefer to take this glass of punch, if you will permit me."

"The punch is cold, I fear; suppose we were to put a little tea in it.
Stay--let me help you."

"A thousand thanks; but I like to attend to such little cookeries myself.
By the way, it seems to me that Mademoiselle Giselle, in her character of
an angel who disapproves of the good things of this life, has not left us
much to eat at your table."

"Who--I?" cried the poor schoolgirl, in a tone of injured innocence and