f the atmosphere that one feels in
the woods at nightfall.

Suddenly the young man stopped, and feeling his body feverishly,
exclaimed:

"Oh, I think that I--"

She looked at him.

"Well, what?"

"I did not notice that I had my coat on my arm."

"Well--?"

"I have lost my pocketbook--my money was in it."

She shook with anger and choked with indignation.

"That was all that was lacking. How stupid you are! how stupid you are!
Is it possible that I could have married such an idiot! Well, go and
look for it, and see that you find it. I am going on to Versailles with
monsieur. I do not want to sleep in the wood."

"Yes, my dear," he replied gently. "Where shall I find you?"

A restaurant had been recommended to me. I gave him the address.

He turned back and, stooping down as he searched the ground with anxious
eyes, he moved away, screaming "tuituit" every few moments.

We could see him for some time until the growing darkness concealed
all but his outline, but we heard his mournful "tuituit," shriller and
shriller as the night grew darker.

As for me, I stepped along quickly and happily in the soft twilight,
with this little unknown woman leaning on my arm. I tried to say pretty
things to her, but could think of nothing. I remained silent, disturbed,
enchanted.

Our path was suddenly crossed by a high road. To the right I perceived a
town lying in a valley.

What was this place? A man was passing. I asked him. He replied:

"Bougival."

I was dumfounded.

"What, Bougival? Are you sure?"

"Parbleu, I belong there!"

The little woman burst into an idiotic laugh.

I proposed that we should take a carriage and drive to Versailles. She
replied:

"No, indeed. This is very funny and I am very hungry. I am really quite
calm. My husband will find his way all right. It is a treat to me to be
rid of him for a few hours."

We went into a restaurant beside the water and I ventured to ask for
a private compartment. We had some supper. She sang, drank champagne,
committed all sorts of follies.

That was my first serious flirtation.

OUR LETTERS

Eight hours of railway travel induce sleep for some persons and insomnia
for others with me, any journey prevents my sleeping on the following
night.

At about five o'clock I arrived at the estate of Abelle, which belongs
to my friends, the Murets d'Artus, to spend three weeks there. It is
a pretty house, built by one of their grandfathers in the sty