“Aren’t you silly, my sweet little Nonette (one of his endearing nicknames)”. “Look at me!” He was holding her face between his hands, trying to make her look at him, but she tightened her eyelids and pulled away from him. “No, I won’t look at you until you stop loving that Princess——” He laughed indulgently. “What a child you are. You know I don’t love anybody but my sweet little kitten with those dear little dimples”—he kissed her on both cheeks, and catching her unawares, pressed a kiss on her mouth. “Aren’t you silly?” he continued as he wiped her gathered tears. “Here I am working so hard to get a little more money so that we may be able to move away from this clattering neighborhood to a cozy little apartment on Rue St. Honoré and you blame me for getting angry at that stupid postman!” “I told the _concierge_ only yesterday that unless she made the children behave we would have to move.” Her voice sounded half reconciled but her eyes were still averted from him. “You sweet little monkey!” He embraced her affectionately and she rested on his arms without resistance. “Ha—ha! Ha—ha!—Ha—ha!” “Shut up, you fool!” she turned angrily upon the laughing parrot. “No one is a fool who can laugh,” Albert said wistfully, with a sad smile on his face. “Come on, let’s all laugh—Ha—ha! Ha—ha!” he mimicked the parrot, and Marguerite presently joined in the laughter. “I am nearly through with my book” he presently consoled her, “and I think I can make that miserly publisher in Berlin advance me five thousand francs on my royalties, and I have my eye on a beautiful apartment on Rue St. Honoré overlooking a garden. I think I’ll be able to buy you the earrings you saw in the display window the other day and——” There was a knock on the door and they both jumped up, Albert went to the door. The _concierge_ was standing with a packet of letters and newspapers. Albert thanked the _concierge_ profusely, tipped her liberally, and scanned the envelopes. “Here is a letter from the publisher,” he exclaimed jubilantly. “I’ll bet the rascal offers me only three thousand francs as an advance for my next volume. He always likes to bargain. If I had asked for three thousand he would have offered me one——” “Why didn’t you ask him for ten, he might have then offered you five,” she counselled. “I didn’t want him to get apoplexy—” he laughed. He tore the envelope and while removing the contents continued talking half to himself, half to Marguerite. “What a long letter—I know—he is telling me, I suppose, how much he has lost on my other books. That rogue! He has grown rich on my sweat and blood and is always whining how little there is in the publishing business and throws me a pittance! Huh! What’s that!” His eyelids came close together as he continued turning the pages and there was a deep dent between his eyes. “The dogs!——” “What’s the matter, my dear?” she looked up anxiously at Albert’s agitated countenance.