e her if she's rather peculiar. She's very unhappy."

"Do you mean through her husband?"

"Yes, he likes other ladies better. He flirts with Mme. de Brives."

Mr. Flack's hand closed over it. "Mme. de Brives?"

"Yes, she's lovely," said Francie. "She ain't very young, but she's
fearfully attractive. And he used to go every day to have tea with Mme.
de Villepreux. Mme. de Cliche can't bear Mme. de Villepreux."

"Well, he seems a kind of MEAN man," George Flack moralised.

"Oh his mother was very bad. That was one thing they had against the
marriage."

"Who had?--against what marriage?"

"When Maggie Probert became engaged."

"Is that what they call her--Maggie?"

"Her brother does; but every one else calls her Margot. Old Mme. de
Cliche had a horrid reputation. Every one hated her."

"Except those, I suppose, who liked her too much!" Mr. Flack permitted
himself to guess. "And who's Mme. de Villepreux?" he proceeded.

"She's the daughter of Mme. de Marignac."

"And who's THAT old sinner?" the young man asked.

"Oh I guess she's dead," said Francie. "She used to be a great friend of
Mr. Probert--of Gaston's father."

"He used to go to tea with her?"

"Almost every day. Susan says he has never been the same since her
death."

"The way they do come out with 'em!" Mr. Flack chuckled. "And who the
mischief's Susan?"

"Why Mme. de Brecourt. Mr. Probert just loved Mme. de Marignac. Mme.
de Villepreux isn't so nice as her mother. She was brought up with the
Proberts, like a sister, and now she carries on with Maxime."

"With Maxime?"

"That's M. de Cliche."

"Oh I see--I see!" and George Flack engulfed it. They had reached the
top of the Champs Elysees and were passing below the wondrous arch to
which that gentle eminence forms a pedestal and which looks down even
on splendid Paris from its immensity and across at the vain mask of the
Tuileries and the river-moated Louvre and the twin towers of Notre Dame
painted blue by the distance. The confluence of carriages--a sounding
stream in which our friends became engaged--rolled into the large avenue
leading to the Bois de Boulogne. Mr. Flack evidently enjoyed the scene;
he gazed about him at their neighbours, at the villas and gardens
on either hand; he took in the prospect of the far-stretching brown
boskages and smooth alleys of the wood, of the hour they had yet to
spend there, of the rest of Francie's pleasant prattle, of the place
near the lake where t