“I assure you that without this paint you are a hundred times handsomer.”

“That I do not deny; but we cannot do without it.”

“Why?”

“Because——”

“You can give me no good reason. If you love me, go on the stage, one evening, with your pretty face just as nature made it. You will see the result.”

“You do not understand the necessities of the stage.”

“That is to say that you refuse to grant the first favor I have ever asked of you.”

“Absolutely. Embrace me, and be silent.”

“Thank you: I do not wish to daub my lips.”

Adéonne went upon the stage with a heavy heart, murmuring,—