"I've seen your Fouchette somewhere under different circumstances," muttered Lerouge, "but I can't just place her."
"Well," said Jean, after a moment's reflection, "she is an uncommon servant."
He began to see that some frankness was the quickest way out of an unpleasant subject. "The fact is, as she has already told my father, Fouchette is an artist's model and lives next door to me. She takes care of my rooms for a consideration. But all the money in the world would not repay what I owe her,—quite all of my present happiness! Let me add, my dear mademoiselle, that the less attention you show her, the less you seem to notice her, the better she will like it."
"How interesting!" cried Andrée; "and how unsatisfactory!"
"Very," said her brother, with a meaning smile.
"Some day, mademoiselle, I will tell you,—not now. I beg you to excuse me just now."
"Certainly, monsieur; but, pardon me, she must be ill,—and her face is heavenly!"
"Is it?" asked Jean. "I had not noticed. Perhaps because one heavenly face is all I can see at the same time."
"Ah, monsieur!"
She tried to hide her confusion in a sip of champagne.