A troupe of girls ran upon the floor and, to the music, began a performance in tumbling. The hair of one was loosened, the ribbon that held it fell at her slippered feet, and two men, from near-by tables, leaped upon it and struggled laughingly for possession of the trophy. The Staintons were intent upon this when they heard a low laugh behind them. They looked about: three women with bright cheeks were peeping through the swinging doors of the box. Involuntarily, Jim smiled, and, since a smile in Montmartre passes current for an invitation, the foremost of the girls entered, shutting out her companions. "_Vous etes Americains?_" she enquired. Stainton's French went as far as that. He nodded. "_Du nord ou du sud?_" Jim was accustomed to thinking that there was but one real America. "The United States," said he. "Ver' well," laughed the girl in an English prettily accented. "Your good 'ealth, sar--and the good 'ealth of mademoiselle." She raised from the table Jim's goblet of champagne and drank a little. It was evident that her English was now exhausted. Jim, frankly puzzled, looked at Muriel. "What shall we do?" he wondered. He thought that Muriel would resent the intrusion, but Muriel did not seem to resent it. "It appears to be the custom," said Muriel again. "I suppose that we had better ask her to sit down and have some champagne." "Very well," said Stainton, none too willingly. "You ask her, then: the French verb 'to sit' always was too much for me." Muriel offered the invitation; the visitor laughingly accepted; another bottle was ordered and, while Jim, unable to understand what was being said, leaned over the rail and looked at the dancers, his wife and the vermilion-lipped intruder engaged in an encounter of small-talk that Muriel began by enjoying as an improvement at once of her French and her knowledge of the world. The visitor, however, so managed the conversation that, though she did give Muriel her address in a little street off the Boulevard Clichy, it was she who was gathering information. She was extremely polite, but extremely inquisitive. "You have been long in Paris, is it not?" she asked. "No, not long; only two weeks," said Muriel. "But in France--no?" "We came direct to Paris." "But you speak French well, mademoiselle." The compliment pleased Muriel to the extent that she missed the title applied to her. "My knowledge of French is very small," she replied. "I studied the language in America." "In America? Truly? One would never suppose." "We had a French nun for teacher." "Yes, yes. And monsieur your sweetheart, he does not speak French--no?" Muriel started. "Monsieur," she said, a little stiffly, "is my husband." But the visitor, far from feeling reprimanded, was openly delighted. "Your husband?" she echoed. "Very good. He is handsome, your husband." "I think so," said Muriel. "And it is always good," pursued the guest, "that the husband be much older than the wife, is it not?"