"Well, really, Renee!" exclaimed Mme. Mauperin severely, and evidently in great distress, "I really don't know--I have never seen you like this----" "Bring the tea in," said M. Mauperin to a servant who had entered in answer to his peal at the bell. IV "A quarter past ten already!" said Mme. Davarande. "We shall only just have time to get to the station. Renee, tell them to bring me my hat." Every one rose. Barousse woke up from his nap with the noise, and the little band of guests from Paris set out for Saint-Denis. "I'll come with you," said Denoisel. "I should like a breath of air." Barousse was in front, arm-in-arm with Reverchon. The Davarandes followed, and Henri Mauperin and Denoisel brought up the rear. "Why don't you stay all night? You could go back to Paris to-morrow," Denoisel began. "No," answered Henri, "I won't do that. I have some work to do to-morrow morning. I should get to Paris late and my day would be wasted." They were silent, and every now and then a few words from Barousse to Reverchon in praise of Renee came to them through the silence of the night. "I say, Denoisel, I'm afraid it is all up with that, don't you think so?" "Yes, I think it is." "Oh, dear! Will you tell me, my dear fellow, what made you humour Renee in all the nonsense that came into her head this evening? You have a great deal of influence over her and----" "My dear boy," answered Denoisel, puffing at his cigar, "you must let me give you a social, philosophical, and historical parenthesis. We have quite finished, have we not, and when I say we, I mean the majority of the French people, with the pretty little young ladies who used to talk like mechanical dolls. They could say 'papa' and 'mamma,' and when they went to a dance they never lost sight of their parents. The little childlike young lady who was always so timid and bashful and who used to blush and stammer, brought up to be ignorant of everything, neither knowing how to stand up on her legs nor how to sit down on a chair--all that sort of thing's done with, old-fashioned, worn out. That was the marriageable young lady of the days of the Gymnase Theatre. There is nothing of that kind nowadays. The process of culture has changed; it used to be a case of the fruit-wall, but at present the young person grows in the open. We ask a girl now about her impressions and we expect her to say what she thinks naturally and originally. She is allowed to talk, and indeed is expected to talk, about everything, as that is the accepted thing now. She need no longer act sweet simplicity, but native intelligence. If only she can shine in society her parents are delighted. Her mother takes her to classes. If she should have any talent it is encouraged and cultivated. Instead of ordinary governesses she must have good masters, professors from the Conservatoire, or artists whose pictures have been hung. She goes in for being an artist and every one is delighted. Come, now, isn't that the way girls are