A young girl, not more than eighteen, was seated near one of the windows. She was not perhaps so beautiful as Mascarin had described, but her face was a very striking one nevertheless. She was slight and good-looking, with the clear complexion of a brunette. Her features were not perhaps very regular, but her glossy black hair was a beauty in itself. She had a pair of dark, melting eyes, and her wide, high forehead showed that she was gifted with great intelligence. There was an air of restrained voluptuousness about her, and she seemed the very embodiment of passion. Paul felt insensibly attracted toward her. Their eyes met, and both started at the same moment. Paul was fascinated in an instant, and the girl’s emotion was so evident that she turned aside her head to conceal it. The babel had now commenced again, and general attention was being paid to a lady who was enthusiastically describing the last new costume which had made its appearance in the Bois de Boulogue. “It was simply miraculous,” said she; “a real triumph of Van Klopen’s art. The ladies of a certain class are furious, and Henry de Croisenois tells me that Jenny Fancy absolutely shed tears of rage. Imagine three green skirts of different shades, each draped----” Mascarin, however, only paid attention to Paul and the young girl, and a sarcastic smile curled his lips. “What do you think of her?” asked he. “She is adorable!” answered Paul, enthusiastically. “And immensely wealthy.” “I should fall at her feet if she had not a sou.” Mascarin gave a little cough, and adjusted his glasses. “Should you, my lad?” said he to himself; “whether your admiration is for the girl or her money, you are in my grip.” Then he added, aloud,-- “Would you not like to know her name?” “Tell me, I entreat you.” “Flavia.” Paul was in the seventh heaven, and now boldly turned his eyes on the girl, forgetting that owing to the numerous mirrors, she could see his every movement. The door was at this moment opened quietly, and Van Klopen appeared on the threshold. He was about forty-four, and too stout for his height. His red, pimply face had an expression upon it of extreme insolence, and his accent was thoroughly Dutch. He was dressed in a ruby velvet dressing-gown, with a cravat with lace ends. A huge cluster-diamond ring blazed on his coarse, red hand. “Who is the next one?” asked he, rudely. The lady who had been talking so volubly rose to her feet, but the tailor cut her short, for catching sight of Mascarin, he crossed the room, and greeted him with the utmost cordiality. “What!” said he; “is it you that I have been keeping waiting? Pray pardon me. Pray go into my private room; and this gentleman is with you? Do me the favor, sir, to come with us.” He was about to follow his guests, when one of the ladies started forward. “One word with you, sir, for goodness sake!” cried she. Van Klopen turned sharply upon her. “What is the matter?” asked he.