rough her bosom. Then he sought to
turn to advantage the embarrassment into which he had plunged her.

"Juliette!" he said pleadingly, as he leaned towards her.

But with a gesture she forced him to resume his seat. It was at the
seaside, at Trouville, that Malignon, bored to death by the constant
sight of the sea, had hit upon the happy idea of falling in love. One
evening he had taken hold of Juliette's hand. She had not seemed
offended; in fact, she had at first bantered him over it. Soon, though
her head was empty and her heart free, she imagined that she loved
him. She had, so far, done nearly everything that her friends did
around her; a lover only was lacking, and curiosity and a craving to
be like the others had impelled her to secure one. However, Malignon
was vain enough to imagine that he might win her by force of wit, and
allowed her time to accustom herself to playing the part of a
coquette. So, on the first outburst, which took place one night when
they stood side by side gazing at the sea like a pair of lovers in a
comic opera, she had repelled him, in her astonishment and vexation
that he should spoil the romance which served as an amusement to her.

On his return to Paris Malignon had vowed that he would be more
skilful in his attack. He had just reacquired influence over her,
during a fit of boredom which had come on with the close of a wearying
winter, when the usual dissipations, dinners, balls, and first-night
performances were beginning to pall on her with their dreary monotony.
And at last, her curiosity aroused, allured by the seeming mystery and
piquancy of an intrigue, she had responded to his entreaties by
consenting to meet him. However, so wholly unruffled were her
feelings, that she was as little disturbed, seated here by the side of
Malignon, as when she paid visits to artists' studios to solicit
pictures for her charity bazaars.

"Juliette! Juliette!" murmured the young man, striving to speak in
caressing tones.

"Come, be sensible," she merely replied; and taking a Chinese fan from
the chimney-piece, she resumed--as much at her ease as though she had
been sitting in her own drawing-room: "You know we had a rehearsal
this morning. I'm afraid I have not made a very happy choice in Madame
Berthier. Her 'Mathilda' is a snivelling, insufferable affair. You
remember that delightful soliloquy when she addresses the purse--'Poor
little thing, I kissed you a moment ago'? Well! she declaims i