“Yes.” “Then you have not heard the last rumor?” exclaimed Saint-Aignan. “No, and you will do me a service, my dear comte, in keeping this report to yourself and to those who circulate it.” “Ah! bah! you take the matter up very seriously.” “Yes; Mademoiselle de Vallière is beloved by one of my best friends.” Saint-Aignan started. “Aha!” he said. “Yes, comte,” continued Guiche; “and consequently, you, the most distinguished man in France for polished courtesy of manner, will understand that I cannot allow my friend to be placed in a ridiculous position.” Saint-Aignan began to bite his nails, partially from vexation, and partially from disappointed curiosity. Guiche made him a very profound bow. “You send me away,” said Saint-Aignan, who was dying to know the name of the friend. “I do not send you away, my dear fellow. I am going to finish my lines to Phyllis.” “And those lines--” “Are a _quatrain_. You understand, I trust, that a _quatrain_ is a serious affair?” “Of course.” “And as, of these four lines, of which it is composed, I have yet three and a half to make, I need my undivided attention.” “I quite understand. Adieu! comte. By the by--” “What?” “Are you quick at making verses?” “Wonderfully so.” “Will you have quite finished the three lines and a half to-morrow morning?” “I _hope_ so.” “Adieu, then, until to-morrow.” “Adieu, adieu!” Saint-Aignan was obliged to accept the notice to quit; he accordingly did so, and disappeared behind the hedge. Their conversation had led Guiche and Saint-Aignan a good distance from the chateau.