She finished her grenadine. Then with a swift movement she caught a passing serving maid and slipped into her hand the money for her companion's scarcely tasted drink and her own. Instantly Andrew protested--Mademoiselle must allow him to have the pleasure. But no--never in life, she had not intruded on his table to have free drinks. As for the _consommation_ of the feather-headed Margot--from Margot herself would she get reimbursement. "But yet, Mademoiselle," said he, "you make me ashamed. You must still be thirsty--like myself." "_Ça ne vous gênera pas?_" She asked the question with such a little air of serious solicitude that he laughed, for the first time. Would it upset his budget, involve the sacrifice of a tram ride or a packet of tobacco, if he spent a few sous on more syrup for her delectation? And yet the delicacy of her motive appealed to him. Here was a little creature very honest, very much of the people, very proud, very conscientious. "On the contrary, Mademoiselle," said he, "I shall feel that you do me an honour." "It is not to be refused," said she politely, and the serving maid was despatched for more beer and syrup. "I waited to see your turn," she said, after a while. "Ah!" he sighed. She glanced at him swiftly. "It does not please you that I should talk about it?" "Not very much," said he. "But I found you admirable," she declared. "Much better than that _espèce de poule mouillée_--I already forget his name--who played last week. Oh--a wet hen--he was more like a drowned duck. So when I heard a comedian from Paris was coming, I said: 'I must wait' and Margot and I waited in the wings--and we laughed. Oh yes, we laughed." "It's more than the audience did," said the miserable Andrew. The audience! Of Avignon! She had never played to such an audience in her her life. They were notorious, these people, all over France. They were so stupid that before they would laugh you had to tell them a thing was funny, and then they were so suspicious that they wouldn't laugh for fear of being deceived. All of which, of course, is a libel on the hearty folk of Avignon. But Elodie was from Marseilles, which naturally has a poor opinion of the other towns of Provence. She also lied for the comforting of Lackaday. "They are so unsympathetic," said he, "that I shall not play any more." She knitted her young brow. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I play neither to-night nor to-morrow night, nor ever again. To-morrow I return to Paris." She regarded him awe-stricken. "You throw up an engagement--just like that--because the audience doesn't laugh?" She had heard vague fairy-tales of pampered opera-singers acting with such Olympian independence; but never a music-hall artist on tour. He must be very rich and powerful. Lackaday read the thought behind the wide-open eyes.