It was a lady with a blotchy face, a yellow bonnet, and a red dress. Hutin immediately recognised in her a woman who would buy nothing. He quickly stooped behind the counter, pretending to be doing up his boot-lace; and, thus concealed, he murmured: “No fear, let some one else take her. I don't want to lose my turn!” However, Robineau called out: “Whose turn, gentlemen? Monsieur Hutin's? Where's Monsieur Hutin?” And as this gentleman still gave no reply, it was the next salesman who served the lady with the blotches. Hutin was right, she simply wanted some samples with the prices; and she kept the salesman more than ten minutes, overwhelming him with questions. However, Robineau had seen Hutin get up from behind the counter; so that when another customer arrived, he interfered with a stern air, stopping the young man, who was rushing forward. “Your turn is passed. I called you, and as you were there behind----” “But I didn't hear you, sir.” “That'll do! Write your name at the bottom. Now, Monsieur Favier, it's your turn.” Favier, greatly amused at heart at this adventure, threw a glance at his friend, as if to excuse himself. Hutin, with pale lips, had turned his head away. What enraged him was that he knew the customer very well, an adorable blonde who often came to their department, and whom the salesmen called amongst themselves “the pretty lady,” knowing nothing of her, not even her name. She bought a great deal, had her purchases taken to her carriage, and immediately disappeared. Tall, elegant, dressed with exquisite taste, she appeared to be very rich, and to belong to the best society. “Well! and your courtesan?” asked Hutin of Favier, when the latter returned from the pay-desk, where he had accompanied the lady. “Oh! a courtesan!” replied the other. “I fancy she looks too lady-like for that. She must be the wife of a stockbroker or a doctor, or something of that sort.” “Don't tell me! it's a courtesan. With their grand lady airs it's impossible to tell now-a-days!” Favier looked at his book of debit-notes. “I don't care!” said he, “I've stuck her for two hundred and ninety-three francs. That makes nearly three francs for me.” Hutin bit his lips, and vented his spleen on the debit notebooks. Another invention for cramming their pockets. There was a secret rivalry between these two. Favier, as a rule, pretended to sing small, to recognise Hutin's superiority, but in reality devouring him all the while behind his back. Thus Hutin was wild at the thought of the three francs pocketed so easily by a salesman whom he considered to be his inferior in business. A fine day's work! If it went on like this, he would not earn enough to pay for the seltzer water for his guests. And in the midst of the battle, which was now becoming fiercer, he walked along the counters with hungry eyes, eager for his share, jealous even of his superior, who was just showing the thin young woman out, and saying to her: