"My pet Daisy, I'd sooner hear what you call your foolish chatter than anything in the world--much sooner than Tamberlik's _ut de poitrine_, that all the musical people are raving about just now. See, darling, let us sit down here. Take off your glove--this right glove. No? what nonsense! I may kiss your hand; there's no one looking but that fat child in the brown-holland knickerbockers, and if he doesn't turn his eyes away, I'll make a face at him, and frighten him into convulsions. There; now tell me about yourself." "About myself? I've nothing to tell, Paul, except that we're horribly busy, and Madame plagues our lives out." "Had you any difficulty in getting out to-day? You thought you would have when last I saw you." "Dreadful difficulty; Madame fussed and fumed, and declared that she could not possibly let me go; but I insisted; and as the customers like me, and always ask for me, I suppose I am too valuable for her to say much." "By the way, Daisy, do any men ever come to your place--with the women, I mean?" "Sometimes; the husbands or the brothers of the ladies." "Exactly. I suppose they don't--I mean, I suppose you don't--what a fool I am! No matter. Are you going back there this evening?" "Yes, Madame would not let me come until I promised to be back by six to see the parcels off. Madame's going to the Opera to-night, and she'll be dressing at the time, and she must have somebody there she can depend upon." "And you are the somebody, Daisy? How deuced nice to be able to reckon upon finding you anywhere when one wanted you! No, I say; no one can see my arm, it's quite covered by your shawl, and it fits so beautifully round your waist, just as if you had been measured for it at Madame Clarisse's. Well, and what time will you be free?" "Between eight and nine, I suppose; nearer nine." "May I meet you when you come away, Daisy? Will you come with me to the theatre?" "No, Paul; you know perfectly well that I will not. You know it is not of the slightest use proposing such things to me." "Yes, I know it's of no use; I wish it were; it would be so jolly, and--then you'll go straight back to South Molton Street?" "Yes; to my garret!" and she laughed, rather a hard laugh, as she said these words. "Don't say that, Daisy; I hate to hear you say that word." "It's the right word, Paul, horrid or not. However, I shall get out of it some day, I suppose." "How?" asked Paul, withdrawing his arm from her waist, and looking fixedly at her. "How should I know?" said the girl, with the same hard laugh. "Feet foremost, perhaps, in my coffin. Somehow, at all events." "You're in a curious mood to-day, Daisy." "Am I? You'll see me in many curious moods, if we continue to know each other long, Paul--which I very much doubt, by the way." "Daisy, what makes you say that? You've not seen anyone--you've not heard--I mean, you don't intend to break with me, Daisy?" "There is nothing to break, my poor Paul!"