"Mignon?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle Mignon De Varville, the famous Whirlwind Dancer of the Paris Variétés. You know her, or ought to, considering that you got a peep at her phiz in spite of me this afternoon."
"Not 'Pink Gauze'? The lady of the tobacco jar?"
"The very identical. Little bit of all right, that—eh, what?"
"Looked like it, at all events," said Cleek, selecting a cigar and lighting up. "What a lucky beggar you are, dear chap—all the good things seem to go your way. And so"—puff! puff!—"Pink Gauze gave you the bracelet, eh? When? Last night? Or didn't you see her then?"
"Oh, I saw her last night, right enough; in fact, I've seen her pretty nearly every night since she came over from Paris, but she didn't give me the bracelet to take care of then. That was on the night before—over at her little place, you know."
"No, I'm blest if I do. How should I? Never saw or heard of her, dear boy, till I had the misfortune to break that tobacco jar and tumble out her photo. So her name's Mignon de Varville, is it? And she's got a little place of her own, eh? Where? In this neighbourhood?"
"Lord, no! Beyond Wimbledon. Rippin' little place, too. Clinkin' little house standing in its own grounds and fitted up to the nines. Took it furnished, and gives the rippin'est suppers and the jolliest dances going. Hot stuff, I give you my word. Brought over her entire troupe with her. Rehearsing now, and with all their evenings to themselves. Going to open in London in a fortnight's time, she says, and no English hotels for her and her little lot. There are ten of 'em: five spiffin' pretty girls, and five of the most awful-lookin' Johnnies you ever saw in evening clothes since the hour you were christened. Coarse as dog's hair, every mother's son of 'em, but clinkin' good chaps, for all that. Plenty of champagne, and jolly good champagne it is, too, dear boy; and after supper there's always a dance, two of the chaps and two of the girls sitting out and furnishing the music. And Lord, you don't know what a dance is, Barch, till you've had one with Mignon de Varville, my boy!"
Cleek did not dispute the assertion. He had had many with the lady in those old days that lay forever behind; and it needed no man's word to tell him how tirelessly, how joyously, and with what mad abandon Margot could dance when the fever of music and wine got into her blood.
"My hat! I'll be choking you from sheer jealousy, presently, you lucky beggar!" he said enviously. "All the plums seem to fall over on your side of the wall, dash you! and here am I sitting solitary and alone in a howling wilderness with not even one. I say, how the dickens did you ever come across this French lot? Blest if I can seem to meet with any—French, English, or any other sort, dash it! Where did you meet the charming Mignon? In Paris?"