"_Mince, alors!_" cried Blanche to Sylvia. "And, you know, I don't want to give him up, because he has thirty thousand francs and he loves me _à la folie_. We are only waiting till he has finished his military service to get married. But I don't want him here. First of all, I have a very _chic_ lover, who has a _poignon fou_ and doesn't care how much he spends, and then the lover of my heart is here." Sylvia protested that she had heard the last claim too often. "No, but this is something much greater than a _béguin_. It is real love. _Il est très trr-ès-beau garçon, tu sais._ And, _chose très-drôle_, he also is doing his military service here. _Tout ça ne se dessine pas du tout bien, tu sais, mais pas du tout, tu comprends! Moi, je ne suis pas veineuse. Ah, non, alors, c'est le comble!_" Blanche had been sufficiently agile to extract the usual wagonette and pair of horses from the chic lover to whom she had introduced her real lover, a tall cuirassier with fierce mustaches, as her brother; but the imminent arrival of Louis was going to spoil all this, because Louis knew well that she did not possess a relative in the world, in fact, as Blanche emphasized, her solitary position had been one of her charms. "You'll have to get rid of Monsieur Beaujour." This was the rich lover. "And lose my horses? _Ah, non, alors!_" "Well, then you'll have to tell Marcel he mustn't come near you until Louis has gone." "And see him go off with that Jeanne at the Clair de la Lune Concert!" "Couldn't Louis pay for the horses?" suggested Sylvia. "I'm not going to let him waste his money like that; besides, he'll only be here two nights. _C'est assommant, tu sais_," Blanche sighed. In the middle of the discussion Louis arrived, a very short little _sous-officier_ with kind watery eyes and a mustache that could only be seen properly out of doors. Louis had not had more than five minutes with his _fiancée_ before M. Beaujour drove up with the wagonette and pair. He was the son of a rich shipping agent in St.-Nazaire, with a stiff manner that he mistook for evidence of aristocratic descent, and bad teeth that prevented him from smiling more than he could help. "I shall tell him you're my brother," said Blanche, quickly. Louis began to protest. "_Pas de boniment_," Blanche went on. "I must be pleasant to strangers in front. Madame Bassompierre insists on that, and you know I've never given you any cause to be really jealous."