“She will send the gown at once,” said the minister, mopping his forehead. “But what a devil of a time I had getting her! Telephonists have lost all respect. I did not remember the number and I did not want to waste the minutes, so I said to the telephonist, ‘I know, my girl, it is forbidden to call without a number, but this is the Minister of Public Services who speaks.’ And figure to yourselves what she says! ‘_Flute alors!_’ she says. ‘Go on with you! That is what they all say!’” “Oh,” laughed red-haired little Mme. Ribot, “that is exactly what happened to Fanny Max, the new soprano everybody is talking about, you know.” Ventrillon saw Mme. Sutrin give the little woman a warning glance, and knew that Belletaille had stiffened at the mention of the name. But Mme. Ribot wore a gown which had been ruined by the Minister of Public Services, and she was about to make him pay through the nose. Nothing could have stopped her. “Excepting that _she_ said she was the _wife_ of the Minister of Public Services; and the telephone girl said----” Mme. Sutrin, having not the vaguest idea what that telephone girl had said, but knowing Mme. Ribot’s tongue only too well, made a desperate gesture to the leader of the jazz band, hoping to drown it in cacophony. The Negro had gone out for a drink. Mme. Sutrin subsided hopelessly. “The telephone girl said,” Mme. Ribot continued calmly and deliberately--“she said, ‘Oh, the pig! _He has deceived me!_’” The minister went a violent shade of royal purple. “And that very day,” the shameless red-haired little creature went on, “Fanny Max went to the telephone bureau with a riding whip, and it required six men to eject her. Ministers of public services must be fascinating.” She looked up wickedly at the minister, who looked down at her in turn as if he would have liked to bite her. She was obtaining royal indemnities for her gown. “Oh, spare me!” cried the Belletaille. “I suffocate! All one hears is Fanny Max! Fanny Max! Fanny Max! The newspapers are full of her. Why people will discuss such a creature I cannot understand. Such vulgarity! It makes me ill. And she will do anything for notoriety. I abhor notoriety myself. I loathe notoriety. And voice? It is like the screech of a rusty hinge. Really, Madame Sutrin, if we are to have nothing but Fanny Max----” “I assure you, madame,” said the minister to Mme. Ribot, striving to keep his rage from his voice, “that I have not the honour of knowing Mademoiselle Max----” “Oh,” she cried quickly, “never fear! Your wife will not hear it from _me_.” “Ugh!” said the Belletaille to Ventrillon, “it continues! It is disgusting! It is unspeakable! It is----” “Mademoiselle,” interrupted Ventrillon, “why speak of her? She exists only to be ignored by you.”