"Our sudden intimacy surprises you, does it not, monsieur? But why should it? Sometimes the richest are the most generous. They do not wait to be asked; they offer their largess to you of their own accord. That was the case with Herminie this evening." "I understand, mademoiselle. You knew no one here, and Mlle. Herminie--" "Seeing me alone, had the goodness to come to me. This can not surprise you very much, however." "Why not, mademoiselle?" "Because a moment ago you, monsieur, were actuated by the same charitable impulse in asking me to dance." "Charitable? What an expression to use in this connection, mademoiselle!" "It is the right one, however." "Quite the contrary, mademoiselle." "Come, admit it, monsieur. You ought always to tell the truth, you know." "Frankly, mademoiselle," responded Olivier, smiling in his turn, "should I be performing an act of charity--allow me to make this comparison--in culling a forgotten or unseen flower?" "Say, rather, a rejected one." "So be it, mademoiselle. But might this not merely show the poor taste of a person who would prefer a big red poppy to a modest violet." And Olivier cast a laughing glance at the buxom lass whose gaudy attire did seem to justify the comparison. Mlle. de Beaumesnil could not help smiling, but she answered, with a shake of the head: "Ah, monsieur, kind as your reply is, it proves that I am doubly right." "How is that, mademoiselle?" "You took compassion on me, and you still have sufficient compassion to be unwilling to admit the fact." "You do right to insist upon frankness, mademoiselle. It is a thousand times better than compliments." "And what I certainly expect of you, monsieur." "Well, yes, mademoiselle; seeing that you were the only person not dancing, I thought how dull it must be for you, and I resolved to engage you for the next quadrille. I hope my sincerity has not offended you, but you insisted--" "Certainly, monsieur; and I am so grateful for your sincerity that if I dared--" "Do not hesitate, I beg of you, mademoiselle." "But no, however frank you may be, however great a lover of truth, your sincerity, I am sure, would not exceed certain limits--" "Those you yourself prescribe, mademoiselle; no others." "Are you in earnest?" "I am, I assure you." "The question I am about to put to you, monsieur, will seem so peculiar, so bold, perhaps." "Then, mademoiselle, I shall tell you that it seems strange and bold, that is all." "I don't think I shall ever dare--" "Ah, mademoiselle, you seem to be afraid of frankness, in your turn," said Olivier, laughing. "Say, rather, that I tremble for your sincerity; it will have to be so great, so rare, to stand my test." "You need have no fears, I will vouch for it, mademoiselle." "Well, monsieur, what do you think of my appearance?" "Mademoiselle," stammered Olivier, who was not in the least prepared for such a brusque and embarrassing question; "really--I--"