“Oh, the whole Quarter! What does that matter to me, your Quarter? Those nasty little students! C’est de la crasse, quoi! They may believe—they may say—what they like. Oh, ça m’est bien égal!” with a shake of the head and a skyward gesture. “But you—but my friends! Am I that sort of girl? Answer.” “There’s only one sort of girl in the precincts ot this University,” declared her disenchanted interlocutor. “You’re all of one pattern. The man’s an ass who expects any good from any of you. Don’t pose as better than the others. You’re all a—un tas de saletés. I’m sick and tired of the whole sordid, squalid lot of you. I should be greatly obliged, now, if you would have the kindness to leave me. Go back to your gaga. He’ll be impatient waiting.” That speech, I fancied, would rid me of her. But no. “You are trying to make me angry, aren’t you? But I refuse to leave you till you have admitted that you are wrong,” she persisted. “It’s an outrageous slander. Monsieur Long (that is his name, Monsieur Long), he lives in the same house with me, on the same landing; et voilà tout. Dame! Can I prevent him? Am I the landlord? And, for that, they say I’m ’collée’ with him. I don’t care what they say. But you! I swear to you it is an infamous lie. Will you come home with me now, and see?” “Oh, that’s mere quibbling. You go with him everywhere, you dine with him, you are never seen without him.” “Dieu de Dieu!” wailed P’tit-Bleu. “How shall I convince you? He is my neighbour. Is it forbidden to know one’s neighbours? I swear to you, I give you my word of honour, it is nothing else. How to make you believe me?” “Well, my dear,” said I, “if you wish me to believe you, break with him. Chuck him up. Drop his acquaintance. Nobody in his senses will believe you so long as you go trapesing about the Quarter with him.” “Oh, but no,” she cried, “I can’t drop his acquaintance.” “Ah, there it is,” cried I. “There are reasons. There are reasons why I can’t, why I mustn’t.” “I thought so.” “Ah, voyons!” she broke out, losing patience.