"I shall have to ask Monsieur le Vicomte what he proposes doing in the way of a 'dot,'" pursued the financier with a cackling laugh, which was not silvery, though it savoured of bullion. The Vicomtesse smiled gravely, and offered the Baron one of those little square biscuits peculiar to Frejus. "Madame knows nothing of such matters?" "Nothing," answered she, meeting the twinkling eyes. "Ah!" murmured the Baron, addressing, it would seem, the distant mountains. "Such details are not, of course, for the ladies. It is the other side of the question"--he laid his hand upon his waistcoat--"the side of the affections--the heart, my dear Vicomtesse, the heart." "Yes," answered Madame, looking at him with that disquieting straight glance of hers--"the heart." In the mean time--in the orange alley--Alphonse was attempting to get a serious hearing from Lucille, and curiously enough was making use of the same word as that passing between their elders on the terrace above them. "Have you no heart?" he cried, stamping his foot on the mossy turf, "that you always laugh when I am serious--have you no heart, Lucille?" "I do not know what you mean by heart," answered the girl with a little frown, as if the subject did not please her. And wiser men than Alphonse Giraud could not have enlightened her. "Then you are incapable of feeling," he cried, spreading out his hands as if in invocation to the trees to hear him. "That may be, but I do not see that it is proved by the fact that I am not always grave. You, yourself, are gay enough when others are by, and it is then that I like you best. It is only when we are alone that you are--tragic. Is that--heart, Alphonse? And are those who laugh heartless? I doubt it." "You know I love you," he muttered gloomily, and the expression on his round face did not seem at home there. "Well," she answered, with a severity gathered heaven knows whence--I cannot think they taught it to her in the convent--"you have told me so twice since you became aware of my continued existence at the ball last month. But you are hopelessly serious to-day. Let us go back to the terrace." She stooped and picked up an orange that had fallen, throwing it subsequently along the smooth turf for her dog to chase. "See," she said gaily, "Talleyrand will scarcely trouble to run now. He is so stout and dignified. He is afraid that the country dogs should see him. It is Paris. Paris spoils--so much." "You know my father's plans concerning us," said Alphonse, after a pause, which served to set aside Talleyrand and the orange. "The Baron's plans are, I am told, wonderful, but"--she paused and gave a little laugh--"I do not understand finance."