They were in the ladies' dressing-room. "The Two Bonbons" had not finished their duet, and he was alone with her for a moment. She was pinning a switch into her back hair, in front of the scrap of looking- glass against the mildewed wall.
"You don't do yourself any good with me Flouflou, by calling Hercule names," she replied icily.
"So he is!"
"Oh, you are jealous of him," she retorted.
"Of course I am jealous of him," owned Flouflou; "you can't rile me by saying that. Didn't I love you first? And a lump better than he does."
"Now you're talking through your hat!"
"You usedn't to take any truck of him, yourself, at the beginning. He only got round you because he was drunk and queered his business. I have been drunk, too—you didn't say you'd marry me. It's not in him to love any girl for long—he's too sweet on himself."
"Look here," she exclaimed. "I've had enough. Hook it! And don't you speak to me any more. Understand?" She put the hairpins aside, and began to whitewash her hands and arms.
"That's the straight tip," said Flouflou, brokenly; "I'm off. Well, I wish you luck, old dear!"
"Running him down to me like that! A dirty trick, I call it."