"Oh! my chest, my chest," cried Marcel, "don't make me laugh so," and the tears streamed down his cheeks with the pain caused by his laughing.
"But I say, Riche," he said as he calmed down, "it's a terrible blow to me."
"Why?" asked Riche, looking at him with a curious smile.
"Well, you know I—ahem—have taken quite a fancy to her. She's a ripping girl, and as clever as they make them, and I am afraid this silly mistake has upset the whole apple-cart."
"Are you really so gone on her as all that?" enquired Riche with a wink of his eye.
"Well, I confess I am a bit in love with her. By Jove, Riche, she is the finest girl in all France."
"My word, you must be in love with her," Riche replied, "I had not the least idea that the little blind god had wounded you so deeply; ma foi! but it's becoming serious."
"Really, monsieur, you must not joke at me like this. If you only knew what a splendid girl she is, and how my future happiness depends on my getting her hand, you would not laugh at me."
Riche gave a low whistle. "By Jove," he said to himself, "he is madly in love with her and no mistake."