tered a
little peevish exclamation, and glanced in despair at her red-headed
countryman. "Are you, too, a great politician, sir?" said she in
English.

"No, mem!--I'm all for the ladies."

"What does he say?" asked Madame Caumartin.

"Monsieur Higgins est tout pour les dames."

"To be sure he is," cried Mr. Love; "all the English are, especially
with that coloured hair; a lady who likes a passionate adorer should
always marry a man with gold-coloured hair--always. What do you say,
Mademoiselle Adele?"

"Oh, I like fair hair," said Mademoiselle, looking bashfully askew
at Monsieur Goupille's peruque. "Grandmamma said her papa--the
marquis--used yellow powder: it must have been very pretty."

"Rather a la sucre d' orge," remarked the epicier, smiling on the right
side of his mouth, where his best teeth were. Mademoiselle de Courval
looked displeased. "I fear you are a republican, Monsieur Goupille."

"I, Mademoiselle. No; I'm for the Restoration;" and again the
epicier perplexed himself to discover the association of idea between
republicanism and sucre d'orge.

"Another glass of wine. Come, another," said Mr. Love, stretching across
the Vicomte to help Madame Canmartin.

"Sir," said the tall Frenchman with the riband, eying the epicier
with great disdain, "you say you are for the Restoration--I am for the
Empire--Moi!"

"No politics!" cried Mr. Love. "Let us adjourn to the salon."

The Vicomte, who had seemed supremely ennuye during this dialogue,
plucked Mr. Love by the sleeve as he rose, and whispered petulantly, "I
do not see any one here to suit me, Monsieur Love--none of my rank."

"Mon Dieu!" answered Mr. Love: "point d' argent point de Suisse. I
could introduce you to a duchess, but then the fee is high. There's
Mademoiselle de Courval--she dates from the Carlovingians."

"She is very like a boiled sole," answered the Vicomte, with a wry face.
"Still-what dower has she?"

"Forty thousand francs, and sickly," replied Mr. Love; "but she likes a
tall man, and Monsieur Goupille is--"

"Tall men are never well made," interrupted the Vicomte, angrily; and
he drew himself aside as Mr. Love, gallantly advancing, gave his arm to
Madame Beavor, because the Pole had, in rising, folded both his own arms
across his breast.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said Mr. Love to Madame Beavor, as they adjourned to
the salon, "I don't think you manage that brave man well."

"Ma foi, comme il est ennuyeux avec sa Pologne," re