And Jacques shifted his packet to the other shoulder.
"Just go to the ball and laugh in that way," he said, "and you'll slay all the hearts in a circle of ten feet."
The girl repeated the fatal ceremony with more energy than ever. The street echoed with it.
"I'm going to the ball, sir," she said; "Bathurst—you know Bathurst—he says he will go with me."
"Little innocent!"
"Sir?"
"I was reflecting, my dear little friend," said the melancholy Jacques, "upon the superiority of your sex before they reach the age of womanhood."
"How, sir?"
"Why, thus. Suppose I had addressed that question to a fine lady—'Are you going to the ball, madam?'—what would her reply have been?"
"I don't know," laughed the girl, pushing back a stray lock from her forehead.