"I understand," said Felicie. "Little flower-girls are what you want. But you mustn't, you know. And there you are seated like a Turk and you haven't written out my prescription yet." She cast an inquiring glance at him. "Where is the stomach exactly?" The door had remained ajar. A young man, a very pretty fellow and extremely fashionable, pushed it open, and, having taken a couple of steps into the dressing-room, inquired politely whether he might come in. "Oh, it's you!" said Nanteuil. And she stretched out her hand, which he kissed with pleasure, ceremony and fatuity. "How are you, Doctor Socrates?" he inquired, without wasting any particular courtesies on Madame Doulce. Trublet was often accosted in this manner, because of his snub-nose and his subtle speech. Pointing to Nanteuil, he said: "Monsieur de Ligny, you see before you a young lady who is not quite sure whether she has a stomach. It is a serious question. We advise her to refer, for the answer, to the little girl who ate too much jam. Her mother said to her: 'You will injure your stomach.' The child replied: 'It's only ladies who have stomachs; little girls haven't any.'" "Heavens, how silly you are, doctor!" cried Nanteuil. "I would you spoke the truth, mademoiselle. Silliness is the capacity for happiness. It is the sovereign content. It is the prime asset in a civilized society." "You are paradoxical, my dear doctor," remarked Monsieur de Ligny. "But I grant you that it is better to be silly as everybody is silly than to be clever as no one else is clever." "It's true, what Robert says!" exclaimed Nanteuil, sincerely impressed. And she added thoughtfully: "At any rate, doctor, one thing is certain. It is that stupidity often prevents one from doing stupid things. I have noticed that many a time. Whether you take men or women, those are not the most stupid who act the most stupidly. For example, there are intelligent women who are stupid about men." "You mean those who cannot do without them." "There's no hiding anything from you, my little Socrates." "Ah," sighed the big Doulce, "what a terrible slavery it is! Every woman who cannot control her senses is lost to art." Nanteuil shrugged her pretty shoulders, which still retained something of the angularity of youth. "Oh, my great-grandmother! Don't try to kid the youngsters! What an idea! In your days, did actresses control their--how did you put it? Fiddlesticks! They didn't control them a scrap!" Noticing that Nanteuil's temper was rising, the bulky Doulce retired with dignity and prudence. Once in the passage, she vouchsafed a further word of advice: "Remember, my darling, to play Angelique as a 'bud.' The part requires it." But Nanteuil, her nerves on edge, took no notice.