that she was being covertly scrutinized by Lerouge. And, what
was harder to bear, the elder Marot showed his sympathy by
good-natured comments on her appearance and service. The cry of
"Fouchette!" recalling her to all this from her refuge in the kitchen
invariably sent a tremor through her slender frame.

"Henri said you were so practical!" laughingly remarked Mlle. Andree.

"And am I not?" asked Jean, looking around the room.

"Not a bit! There is nothing practical here,--no,--and your Fouchette
is the most impossible of all."

"Ah, Jean!" broke in Henri, "this Fouchette,--come now, tell us about
her."

"With proper reservations," said M. Marot, seriously.

"No; everything!" cried Andree.

She could see that it teased him, and persisted. "Anybody would know
that she is not a common servant. Look at her hands!"

"I've seen your Fouchette somewhere under different circumstances,"
muttered Lerouge, "but I can't just place her."

"Well," said Jean, after a moment's reflection, "she is an uncommon
servant."

He began to see that some frankness was the quickest way out of an
unpleasant subject. "The fact is, as she has already told my father,
Fouchette is an artist's model and lives next door to me. She takes
care of my rooms for a consideration. But all the money in the world
would not repay what I owe her,--quite all of my present happiness!
Let me add, my dear mademoiselle, that the less attention you show
her, the less you seem to notice her, the better she will like it."

"How interesting!" cried Andree; "and how unsatisfactory!"

"Very," said her brother, with a meaning smile.

"Some day, mademoiselle, I will tell you,--not now. I beg you to
excuse me just now."

"Certainly, monsieur; but, pardon me, she must be ill,--and her face
is heavenly!"

"Is it?" asked Jean. "I had not noticed. Perhaps because one heavenly
face is all I can see at the same time."

"Ah, monsieur!"

She tried to hide her confusion in a sip of champagne.

M. Marot and Lerouge became suddenly interested in a sketch upon the
wall and rose, puffing their cigars, to make a closer and more
leisurely examination.

Jean's hand somehow came in contact with Andree's,--does any one know
how these things come about?--and the girl's cheeks grew more rosy
than usual. She straightway forgot Mlle. Fouchette. Her eyes were
lowered and she gently removed her hand from the table.

"Here is the true model for an artist," said he.

"But I