Finally a sauntering young man wheeled suddenly to catch her very close to his heels.
"Say," said he, grinning at her, "I've walked twice around this triangle to see if you were really following me. What's the object?"
"It's—it's your coat," explained Jeanne, turning very crimson under her dusky skin.
"My coat! What's the matter with my coat?"
"The—the style."
"What! Isn't it stylish enough to suit you?"
"It's the seams. I'm—I'm using them for a pattern."
"Ah, I see. Behold the lady tailor, planning a suit of clothes for her husband."
"I haven't any husband," denied Jeanne, indignantly. "I'm too young to be married. But I'm awfully glad to see the front of your coat. I've seen a great many backs; but it's harder to get a good look at fronts. Good-by."
"Queer little kid!" said the young man, pausing to watch Jeanne's sudden flight down the street. "Pretty, too, with those big black eyes. Looks like a French child."