"Good Lord, deliver us," exclaimed Marcel, trying to conceal his vexation. "Monsieur, I don't believe you have ever been to Buenos Aires. Now confess." "If Mademoiselle will forgive me, I own up to it." "We will forgive you this time," she said, tapping him once more with her fan. "A penny for your thoughts?" he next enquired. "To speak plainly, I think you are just a pure romancer," she answered, looking very cross and frowning. "I gave you credit for more ability than you seem to possess," and she turned her head away from him. Marcel felt very angry and nettled at her outspoken criticism, and felt inclined to show her his annoyance, but he allowed his discretion to overcome his feelings. "Ah, mademoiselle, you forget-- "The naked truth and the naked lie Are banned in good society. "What do you like best among the arts?" added Marcel, anxious to change the conversation. "Oh, I adore music," she replied, turning towards him and becoming more amiable, "and I love painting, but I think I enjoy reading best." "What? Novels?" "Oh, dear no, poetry and the literature of the great writers. By the way, I think you said you had taken to writing poetry?" she said sarcastically. "That is true, mademoiselle." Violette looked at him incredulously, and bit her lip with a frown. "I can vouch for the truth of that, mademoiselle," said Payot who had been talking to her father and was now listening to Violette. "I assure you I know nothing superior to our friend's poetry. It combines the sparkle and wit of Alfred de Musset with the intense pathos of Victor Hugo, and is not inferior to either." "What!" cried Violette, "you don't mean to say that I am actually talking to George Marcel who wrote the book on epigrams, '_Les poemes de ma Jeunesse_,' and '_Le dernier combat dans le Colisée_'?" "That is the same gentleman, mademoiselle. There is only one George Marcel in the world as far as I know." The change which took place in Violette's features was almost ludicrous. She had been under the impression that he was merely an ignorant and very conceited fop, who was only pretending that he had travelled, and was posing as a poet and author of merit, when she suddenly discovered that she had been snubbing one of the most promising poets and writers in France. Marcel watched the struggle going on in her mind, and noted her confusion and blushes with an amused expression. "Since I am unable to play and sing to Mademoiselle, may I perhaps have the great pleasure of hearing her play and sing to me?" Violette blushed again and looked up at her mother who fortunately took up the cue. "Certainly, monsieur," said Madame Beaupaire, "we shall expect you on Sunday evening next, if you will take pot-luck with us, and we shall then be better prepared for the concert afterwards."