"Yes, there's no doubt I'm still an ass," she said. "And since the Argentine really a golden ass; but oh, when, when, when shall I eat the rose-leaves and turn into Sylvia again? One might make a joke about that, as the White Knight said, something about Golden and Silver and Argentine." Thinking of jokes reminded Sylvia of Mr. Pluepott, and thinking of Alice through the looking-glass brought back the Vicar. What a long way off they seemed. "I can't let go of everybody," she cried. So she telegraphed and wrote urgently to Mrs. Gainsborough, begging her to join her in Paris. While she was waiting for a reply, she discussed projects for the future with her agent, who, when he found that she had some money, was anxious for her to invest a certain amount in the necessary _réclame_ and appear at the Folies Bergères. "But I don't want to make a success by singing French songs with an English accent," Sylvia protested. "I'd as soon make a success by singing without a roof to my mouth. You discouraged me from doing something I really wanted to do. All I want now is an excuse for roaming." "What about a tour in Spain?" the agent suggested. "I can't get you more than ten francs a night, though, if you only want to sing. Still, Spain's much cheaper than America." "_Mon cher ami, j'ai besoin du travail pour me distraire_. Ten francs is the wage of a slave, but pocket-money, if one is not a slave." "_Vous avez de la veine, vous_." "_Vraiment?_" "_Mais oui_." "_Peut-être quelqu'un m'a plaqué_." He tried to look grave and sympathetic. "_Salaud_," she mocked. "_Crois-tu que je t'en dirais. Bigre! je creverais plutôt_." She had dropped into familiarity of speech with him, but he, still hopeful of persuading her to intrust a profitable _réclame_ to him, continued to treat her formally. Sylvia realized the _arrière pensée_ and laughed at him. "_Je ne suis pas encore en grande vedette, tu sais_." He assured her that such a triumph would ultimately come to her, and she scoffed. "_Mon vieux, si je n'avais pas de la galette, je pourrais crever de faim devant ta porte. Ce que tu me dis, c'est du chic_." "Well, will you go to Spain?" The contract was signed. A day or two later, when she was beginning to give up hope of getting an answer from Mrs. Gainsborough, the old lady herself turned up at the hotel, looking not a minute older. "You darling and daring old plesiosaurus," cried Sylvia, seizing her by the hand and twirling her round the vestibule.