"The same."
"Ah, my dear fellow—no; one only sees such things in the comic plays of the minor theatres, at Cluny or Dejazet."
"What's the matter with you?"
"What's the matter with me? She's papa's Number Three—yes, Number Three. The father of that little marvel is one of papa's piquet players at the club. And I wouldn't see Number Three, and she falls into my arms on the platform between Paris and Lyons. You will present me after lunch, and I shall speak to the mother and tell her all."
"How, all?"
"Yes, all; that her daughter is papa's Number Three, and that I didn't want Number One or Two, but that I should like Number Three. Ah, dear boy, how pretty she is—especially her nose, so charmingly turned up. She has just looked at me, and in a certain way; I am sure I don't displease her. Did you mention me, did you tell my name?"
"No."
"You were wrong. At any rate, right after lunch—Do you know what I think? That this affair will go through on wheels. I shall first telegraph papa, and then to-morrow—Oh, heavens! I hope there's a telephone between Paris and Marseilles—"
He interrupted himself and called:
"Porter! Porter!"