"It is natural," murmured Frisonnette. But her eyes were frightened, and she investigated the cupboard. And when the cupboard was discovered to be as empty as the pouch and the coal-scuttle, she rushed to him in a panic. "You are starving!" she moaned. "You have starved here, while I----Mon Dieu, I have not come home too soon!" "Tut, tut," said Floromond; "are you trying to pose me for a hero of romance? I have been an idle vagabond, that is all. The cat is out of the bag, though--you have come home, ma Frisonnette adorée, and I have nothing for your welcome but my embrace!" And thinking of the want that lay before her, he broke down. "I love you, I love you, Floromond," she wept. "I love you," he sobbed, "I love you, Frisonnette." Then, in the fading daylight, arose a plaintive cry--the wail of the itinerant wardrobe dealer: "_Chand d'habits!_" "_Chand d'habits_!" she gasped, and darted to the window. "_Chand d'habits_!" she screamed--and stripped the smart costume from her and stood triumphant in her petticoat. Before the dealer's aged legs had toiled up half the stairs, she was back in the little old frock that had been cast aside. "Hook me, my Floromond!" And her eager arms were laden, and her frozen hands showered raiment on the floor: the _peignoir_, and _tricot_, and dresses--the pink, and the mauve, and the plaid. "We dine to-night!" she laughed. "Enter, _Chand d'habits!_" * * * * * "And, word of honour," observed Floromond, when the clocks of Paris had sounded twelve, and the pair sat digesting their beef-steak, and toasting their toes, and she rolled another cigarette for him, "word of honour, you have never looked more captivating than you do now--that frock becomes you marvellously. At the same time, the fine clothes I have been gobbling lie somewhat heavy on my sensibilities, particularly the fascinating ribbons of the _peignoir_. If only I had kept my nose to the grindstone! Ah, if only we had something better to expect than this hand-to-mouth existence! Alas, on New Year's Day, I cannot give you even a bunch of flowers." And, at that moment, hurrying feet approached the house--young and excited voices were heard below. And what should it prove to be Well, what it _should_ have proved to be was, that his "Ariadne" had, in some ingenious way, been purchased, for a large sum, without his knowledge, and that a contingent of the quarter had arrived to proclaim his affluence; but, as a matter of semi-sober fact, it was only a posse of exhilarated students, wishing everybody the compliments of the season, and playing _Le Chemin de l'Amour_ on a trombone. Still, there was a beautiful morning, as we know, when Floromond and Frisonnette had flowers on their own balcony, and three rooms, and chairs that they had actually bought and paid for--to say nothing of the baby. The Moral of which is, that there are more New Year's Days than one and it's never too late to hope. So let us all hope now!