Alice turned to her companion, whose silence troubled her, and one look from her blue eyes was purification to the young man’s thoughts. With her little ungloved hand she pointed to the basket which was rapidly emptying itself. “Here are some flowers,” she cried. “Aren’t you going to throw any?” She blushed as she uttered these simple words, and her extreme shyness made her look the lovelier. The allegorical chariot of Summer passed on, and, following a carriage covered with vervain and roses, came the regimental break of the dragoons quartered at Chambéry, artistically decorated with brilliant sunflowers and big bunches of jonquils. Among the officers in uniform the only one standing was Lieutenant de Marthenay, whose elegance was of the rather cumbersome kind which evidences the passing of youth. He carried a bouquet of rare and lovely orchids. It was very evident that he was looking for someone on the stands. When he saw Mademoiselle Dulaurens, he smiled, bowed, and made as if he would throw the bouquet to her. This bold impertinence, drawing the public gaze upon the young girl, vexed Marcel Guibert, who dived into Alice’s basket and with a very efficacious zeal was the first to begin the fight with his rival. His aim was well-calculated, but not so the strength. He struck the Dragoon full in the face, thereby extinguishing the bright smile. De Marthenay, taken aback, let the precious orchids fall on the ground where they were picked up at once by a watchful collector of flowers. Furious at this, he swept the stand with his glance, only to see Isabelle Orlandi, who was clapping her hands and crying: “Well hit! Three cheers for the Tirailleurs!” Jean Berlier backed her up, amused at her exuberant spirits. De Marthenay, however, paid no attention to their raillery. At last he noticed Marcel Guibert’s strong, contemptuous face a little behind Alice. But while his anger and malice grew stronger and stronger, the Dragoon’s chariot passed on. At every turn which brought him in front of the Dulaurens party, he saw Alice, forgetful of the battle, talking to his rival; she seemed a changed, absorbed, and less retiring Alice. And, every time, Isabelle and her admirer took a spiteful joy in interrupting his observations by incessantly bombarding him. They had the advantage of the position, and they kept at it all the afternoon. In the meantime an unexpected carriage had appeared in the procession. Entirely decorated with scarlet, copper red, and orange cannas, flame-like in shape and color, Clément Dulaurens’ motor puffed past snorting and panting. In the brilliant daylight it looked like a raging fire. It was the first motor car allowed to take part in the show, and it was by no means welcome. Its abominable smell overwhelmed the scent of the flowers, and the horrible noise which accompanied its quivering progress brought down upon it the wrath of the crowd, in spite of indignant protests from some lovers of the sport.