"Pray, Monsieur," says a gentle voice at the door, "where is that old _Froissart_ that I saw outside about a quarter of an hour ago?" "Just sold, Madame," replies the bookseller, promptly. "Oh, how unfortunate!--and I only went home for the money" exclaims the lady in a tone of real disappointment. Selfishly exultant, I hug the book more closely, turn to steal a glance at my defeated rival, and recognise--Mademoiselle Dufresnoy. She does not see me. I am standing in the inner gloom of the shop, and she is already turning away. I follow her at a little distance; keep her in sight all the way home; let her go into the house some few seconds in advance; and then, scaling three stairs at a time, overtake her at the door of her apartment. Flushed and breathless, I stand beside her with _Froissart_ in my hand. "Pardon, Mademoiselle," I say, hurriedly, "for having involuntarily forestalled you just now. I had just bought the book you wished to purchase," She looks at me with evident surprise and some coldness; but says nothing. "And I am rejoiced to have this opportunity of transferring it to you." Mademoiselle Dufresnoy makes a slight but decided gesture of refusal. "I would not deprive you of it, Monsieur," she says promptly, "upon any consideration." "But, Mademoiselle, unless you allow me to relinquish it in your favor, I beg to assure you that I shall take the book back to the bookseller and exchange it for some other." "I cannot conceive why you should do that, Monsieur." "In order, Mademoiselle, that you may still have it in your power to become the purchaser." "And yet you wished to possess the book, or you would not have bought it." "I would not have bought it, Mademoiselle, if I had known that I should disappoint a--a lady by doing so," I was on the point of saying, "if I had known that I should disappoint you by so doing," but hesitated, and checked myself in time. A half-mocking smile flitted across her lips. "Monsieur is too self-sacrificing," she said. "Had I first bought the book, I should have kept it--being a woman. Reverse the case as you will, and show me any just reason why you should not do the same--being a man?" "Nay, the merest by-law of courtesy..." I began, hesitatingly. "Do not think me ungracious, Monsieur," she interrupted, "if I hold that these so-called laws of courtesy are in truth but concessions, for the most part, from the strength of your sex to the weakness of ours." "_Eh bien_, Mademoiselle--what then?" "Then, Monsieur, may there not be some women---myself, for instance--who do not care to be treated like children?" "Pardon, Mademoiselle, but are you stating the case quite fairly? Is it not rather that we desire not to efface the last lingering tradition of the age of chivalry--not to reduce to prose the last faint echoes of that poetry which tempered the sword of the Crusader and inspired the song of the Trouvère?"