eased, probably by order of Madame de Nailles, who in
matters of propriety was very punctilious. Jacqueline, too, became less
familiar than she had been with the man she called "my great painter."
Indeed, in her heart of hearts, she cherished a grudge against him. She
thought he presumed on the right he had assumed of teasing her. The older
she grew the more he treated her as if she were a baby, and, in the
little passages of arms that continually took place between them,
Jacqueline was bitterly conscious that she no longer had the best of it
as formerly. She was no longer as droll and lively as she had been. She
was easily disconcerted, and took everything 'au serieux', and her wits
became paralyzed by an embarrassment that was new to her. And, pained by
the sort of sarcasm which Marien kept up in all their intercourse, she
was often ready to burst into tears after talking to him. Yet she was
never quite satisfied unless he was present. She counted the days from
one Wednesday to another, for on Wednesdays he always dined with them,
and she greeted any opportunity of seeing him on other days as a great
pleasure. This week, for example, would be marked with a white stone. She
would have seen him twice. For half an hour Marien had been enduring the
bore of the reception, standing silent and self-absorbed in the midst of
the gay talk, which did not interest him. He wished to escape, but was
always kept from doing so by some word or sign from Madame de Nailles.
Jacqueline had been thinking: "Oh! if he would only come and talk to us!"
He was now drawing near them, and an instinct made her wish to rush up to
him and tell him--what should she tell him? She did not know. A few
moments before so many things to tell him had been passing through her
brain.

What she said was: "Monsieur Marien, I recommend to you these little
spiced cakes." And, with some awkwardness, because her hand was
trembling, she held out the plate to him.

"No, thank you, Mademoiselle," he said, affecting a tone of great
ceremony, "I prefer to take this glass of punch, if you will permit me."

"The punch is cold, I fear; suppose we were to put a little tea in it.
Stay--let me help you."

"A thousand thanks; but I like to attend to such little cookeries myself.
By the way, it seems to me that Mademoiselle Giselle, in her character of
an angel who disapproves of the good things of this life, has not left us
much to eat at your table."

"Who--I?" cried th