“In forty-eight hours.”
“However did you manage to be born there, Larive? I’m surprised at you.”
“So am I. I often think about it. Good-by. I must be off.”
I caught him by the hand which he held out to me.
“Larive, tell me where you have met Mademoiselle Charnot?”
“Oh, come!—I see it’s serious. My dear fellow, I am so sorry I did not tell you she was perfection. If I had only known!”
“That’s not what I asked you. Where have you seen her?”
“In society, of course. Where do you expect me to see young girls except in society? My dear Fabien!”
He went off laughing. When he was about ten yards off he turned, and making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, he shouted through them:
“She’s perfection!”