“No, she only makes eyes at them. It’s the same thing. Now, what can she be doing here to-night—for she is a friend of the Dubarrys?” “What can she be doing here? Why, where are your eyes? She is making Choiseul’s ball-room more beautiful, of course. _Mon Dieu_, what a face; it makes every other face look like a platter. Sartines, introduce me.” “That I will not.” “Then I will introduce myself.” “That is as may be.” Rochefort turned on his heel and walked straight towards Mademoiselle Fontrailles, whilst Sartines looked on in horror. He knew that Rochefort would stick at nothing, but he did not dream that he would dare the act on which he was now evidently bent. Rochefort walked straight up to Madame de Courcelles, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and bowed. “How delightful to find you here, and you, too, Mademoiselle Fontrailles. I was just complaining of the profusion of the flowers—I thought Choiseul must have gathered together a hundred million roses in this room—till, turning to your alcove, I found there were only two.” He bowed, and Madame de Courcelles laughed as she rose to greet Sartines, with whom she wished a few minutes’ conversation. “Since you two know each other, I will leave you to talk nonsense together,” said she. “Ah, Sartines, I thought you were eluding me. You looked twice in my direction, and not one sign of recognition.” “I am growing short-sighted, madame,” replied de Sartines, as she took his arm, “and had it not been for the keen sight of Monsieur de Rochefort, I might altogether have missed you.” They passed away in the crowd that now thronged the room, leaving Rochefort and Mademoiselle Fontrailles together. She was very beautiful. Graceful as the _fleur d’amour_ of her native land, dark, yet without a trace of the creole, and with eyes that had been compared to black pansies. Those same eyes when seen by daylight discovered themselves not as pansies, but as two wells of the deepest blue. The Flower of Martinique looked at Rochefort, and Rochefort looked at the Flower of Martinique. “Monsieur,” said the Flower, “I have met many surprising things in Paris; but nothing has surprised me more than your impertinence.” “Not my impertinence, dear Mademoiselle Fontrailles,” replied Rochefort, “but my philosophy. Have you not noticed that when two people get to know each other they generally bore each other? Now in Paris society two people cannot possibly know each other without being introduced; and, since we have never been introduced, it follows logically that we can never bore each other.” “I am not so sure of that,” replied the lady, looking at her companion critically. “Many people to whom I have never been introduced bore me by the expression of their faces and the tone of their voices. I was noticing that fact even whilst I was watching you talking to Monsieur de Sartines a moment ago.” “Ah,” said Rochefort, “you noticed that about him! It is true he is a bit heavy.”