e nous deplait pas;" and Vaughan's
friends, like the rest of us pharisees, dearly loved to glance at the
publican (especially if he was handsomer, cleverer, or any way better
than themselves), and thank God loudly that they were not such men as
he. Ernest was a hardened sinner, however; he laughed, put the Channel
between him and them, and went on his ways without thinking or caring
for their animadversions.

"By Jove! Emile," said he as they sat dining together at Leiter's, "I
should like to find out my golden-haired sylphide. She was English, by
her fair skin, and though I'm not very fond of my compatriotes,
especially when they're abroad (I think touring John Bull detestable
wrapped up in his treble plaid of reserve), still I should like to find
her out just for simple curiosity. I assure you she'd the prettiest foot
and ankle I ever saw, not excepting even Bluette's."

"Ma foi! that's a good deal from _you_. She must be found, then. Voyons!
shall we advertise in the _Moniteur_, employ the secret police, or call
at all the hotels in person to say that you're quite ready to act out
Soulie's 'Lion Amoureux,' if you can only discover the petite
bourgeoise to play it with you?"

Vaughan laughed as he drank his demi-tasse.

"Lion amoureux! that's an anomaly; we're only in love just enough pour
nous amuser; and of us Albin says, very rightly,

Si vous connaissiez quelques meilleurs,
Vous porteriez bientot cette ame ailleurs."

"Very well, then: if you don't know of anything better, let's hunt up
this incognita. If she went to the Francais, she's most likely at the
Odeon to-night," said De Concressault. "Shall we try?"

"Allons!" said Vaughan, rising indolently, as he did most things. "But
it's rather silly, I think; there are bright smiles and pretty feet
enough in Paris without one's setting off on a wild-goose chase after
them."

They were playing the last act of "La Calomnie," as Vaughan and De
Concressault took their places, put up their lorgnons, and looked round
the house. He swore a few mental "Diables!" and "Sacres!" as his gaze
fell on faces old or ugly, or too brunes or too blondes, or anything but
what he wanted. At last, without moving his glass, he touched De
Concressault's arm.

"There she is, Emile, in the fourth from the centre, in a white opera
cloak, with pink flowers in her hair."

"I see her, mon ami," said Emile. "I found her out two seconds ago (see
how well you sketch!) but I wouldn'