"That day we took her to Meudon, with Jeannot, and dined at the Garde Champêtre's, and she danced the cancan with Sandy."
"Well—I am—And she refused you?"
"Apparently so."
"Well, I—Why on earth did she refuse you?"
"Oh, I suppose she'd already begun to fancy you, my friend. Il y en a toujours un autre!"
"Fancy me—prefer me—to you?"
"Well, yes. It does seem odd—eh, old fellow? But there's no accounting for tastes, you know. She's built on such an ample scale herself, I suppose, that she likes little uns—contrast, you see. She's very maternal, I think. Besides, you're a smart little chap; and you ain't half bad; and you've got brains and talent, and lots of cheek, and all that. I'm rather a ponderous kind of party."
"Well—I am damned!"
"C'est comme ça! I took it lying down, you see."
"Does the Laird know?"