Next—back, under her plum-coloured umbrella, returned the grisette. At once the dandy stood forward.
"Mademoiselle, as you passed just now, assuredly you dropped this."
[Illustration: Sculpture over the kitchen entrance at Jacques Coeur's house.]
"Mais, Monsieur! ce n'est pas possible. Ce n'est pas à moi."
"Pardon, mademoiselle, you dropped it; I saw you. I heard it fall."
"Cependant,—it is not mine."
"Then it is nobody's. I will throw it away."
"Mais, monsieur, it is of silver."
"Take it, mademoiselle, I pray."
She held the little silver thimble between thumb and forefinger, turned it about, studied it, hesitated, was inclined to take it, but did not wish to place herself under an obligation to a fop, and a stranger—knitted her brows—when up came a young workman, with a lead pencil in his hand—in his blouse.