“Oh, sir!” I exclaimed, “how can I ever—­”

“No thanks, I beg,” interposed Dr. Cheron.  “Prove your gratitude by your conduct; do not trouble yourself to talk about it.”

“Indeed, sir, you may depend—­”

“And no promises either, if you please.  I attach no kind of value to them.  Stay—­here is my check for the fifty pounds forwarded by your father.  With that sum extricate yourself from debt.  You know the rest.”

Hereupon Dr. Cheron replaced the cards and the printed form, double-locked his desk, and, with a slight gesture of the hand, frigidly dismissed me.

I left the house quite chopfallen.  I was relieved, it is true, from the incubus of debt; but then how small a figure I had cut in the eyes of Dr. Cheron!  Besides, I was small for the second time—­reproved for the second time—­lectured, helped, put down, and poohpoohed, for the second time!  Could I have peeped at myself just then through the wrong end of a telescope, I vow I could not have looked smaller in my own eyes.

I had no time to dine; so I despatched a cup of coffee and a roll on my way home, and went hungry to the theatre.

Josephine was got up with immense splendor for this occasion; greatly to her own satisfaction and my disappointment.  Having hired a small private box in the least conspicuous part of the theatre, I had committed the cowardly mistake of endeavoring to transform my grisette into a woman of fashion.  I had bought her a pink and white opera cloak, a pretty little fan, a pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet.  With these she wore a decent white muslin dress furnished out of the limited resources of her own wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the work of her own clever fingers.  Thus equipped, she was far less pretty than in her coquettish little every-day cap, and looked, I regret to say, more like an ouvriere than ever.  Aggravating above all else, however, was her own undisguised delight in her appearance.

“Are my flowers all right?  Is my dress tumbled?  Is the hood of my cloak in the middle of my back?” were the questions she addressed to me every moment.  In the ante-room she took advantage of each mirror we passed.  In the lobby I caught her trying to look at her own back.  When we reached our box she pulled her chair to the very centre of it, and sat there as if she expected to be admired by the whole audience.

“My dear Josephine,” I remonstrated, “sit back here, facing the stage.  You will see much better—­besides, it is your proper seat, being the only lady in the box.”

“Ah, mon Dieu! then I cannot see the house—­and how pretty it is!  Ever so much prettier than the Gaiete, or the Porte St. Martin!”

“You can see the house by peeping behind the curtain.”

“As if I were ashamed to be seen! Par exemple!”

“Nay, as you please.  I only advise you according to custom and fashion.”