The movement toward the refreshment tables had now begun, and there was a coming and going through the two drawing-rooms, the ante-chamber and the dining-room, prolonging itself, with frequent delays as the young people found opportunities for flirtation. Some of them, all for dancing, called noisily for the orchestra again. Some of the young girls showed already that they were clever and happy in the tricks and coquetry that land a husband some day. Some of them, though only a few, so far as a cursory glance could tell, did not bother to see whether a man wore an engagement ring or not before they trained their artful batteries on him. The eyes of youth flashed under the chandeliers, as sparkling as the jewels which shone in hair or corsage, on wrists or fingers. Among the men’s black coats the clear bits of colour and mellow outlines of the women’s frocks stood out like water-colours. In which category did Miss Jeanne Sassenay belong, determinedly making off with Raymond Bercy, the fiancé last year of Miss Roquevillard, while her mother’s vigilant eye followed her with solicitude and some surprise? Her little head was like a Greek statue’s, borne so elegantly and easily above its stone shoulders: was it so scatter-brained it could not even cherish the memory of her abandoned friend? Were her cool blue eyes, with their clear glances, only indifferent and not sincere? Her cheeks glowed with the exercise of dancing, but she was not smiling, she was wrinkling her eyebrows, and shut her lips tight, as if she were making some important decision. It was an air that contrasted quaintly with her pretty, childlike manner. “I haven’t danced with you yet,” the young man was saying. “Won’t you give me a waltz?” “No,” she replied emphatically, first looking round to see that they were quite alone. “Why not? Are all your waltzes taken?” “No, not all.” He did not think her serious, and was not chilled by her coolness. “I’m warned, then. Many thanks,” he laughed. She gave one of those tired “ughs,” like workmen lifting a heavy weight, and then began to talk all at once, full of her subject: “Indeed I must warn you, sir. Your mother has talked to mamma. And mamma has no secrets from me. If she ever has any, I guess them. Very well, then, I’ll never, do you hear, never consent to marry you.” “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I have not asked for your hand,” the young man retorted in astonishment. “Your mother has been over the ground, as they say so prettily,” she resumed. “Mothers make a great many plans for their sons. This one, however flattering it is, doesn’t correspond with my intentions.” “Oh, so much the worse,” said Jeanne. “I’m not thinking of marrying,” he said. “You’re wrong there,” said the girl, the reproach sounding queer and almost funny from her childish mouth. “When one has the luck in life to meet a young girl like Margaret Roquevillard,” she added, “one oughtn’t to wreck such happiness one’s self.”