he conversation.

"Oh, let her alone, my dear fellow; she's a low lot! The public will
show her the door in quick time. Steiner, my laddie, you know that my
wife is waiting for you in her box."

He wanted to take possession of him again. But Steiner would not quit
Bordenave. In front of them a stream of people was crowding and crushing
against the ticket office, and there was a din of voices, in the midst
of which the name of Nana sounded with all the melodious vivacity of its
two syllables. The men who stood planted in front of the notices kept
spelling it out loudly; others, in an interrogative tone, uttered it as
they passed; while the women, at once restless and smiling, repeated
it softly with an air of surprise. Nobody knew Nana. Whence had Nana
fallen? And stories and jokes, whispered from ear to ear, went the round
of the crowd. The name was a caress in itself; it was a pet name, the
very familiarity of which suited every lip. Merely through enunciating
it thus, the throng worked itself into a state of gaiety and became
highly good natured. A fever of curiosity urged it forward, that kind
of Parisian curiosity which is as violent as an access of positive
unreason. Everybody wanted to see Nana. A lady had the flounce of her
dress torn off; a man lost his hat.

"Oh, you're asking me too many questions about it!" cried Bordenave,
whom a score of men were besieging with their queries. "You're going to
see her, and I'm off; they want me."

He disappeared, enchanted at having fired his public. Mignon shrugged
his shoulders, reminding Steiner that Rose was awaiting him in order to
show him the costume she was about to wear in the first act.

"By Jove! There's Lucy out there, getting down from her carriage," said
La Faloise to Fauchery.

It was, in fact, Lucy Stewart, a plain little woman, some forty years
old, with a disproportionately long neck, a thin, drawn face, a heavy
mouth, but withal of such brightness, such graciousness of manner, that
she was really very charming. She was bringing with her Caroline Hequet
and her mother--Caroline a woman of a cold type of beauty, the mother a
person of a most worthy demeanor, who looked as if she were stuffed with
straw.

"You're coming with us? I've kept a place for you," she said to
Fauchery. "Oh, decidedly not! To see nothing!" he made answer. "I've a
stall; I prefer being in the stalls."

Lucy grew nettled. Did he not dare show himself in her company? Then,
sudd