I was an easy victim, after all, and scarcely worth the powder and shot of an experienced franc-tireur; but Madame de Marignan, according to her own confession, had a taste for civilizing “handsome boys,” and as I may, perhaps, have come under that category a good many years ago, the little victory amused her!  By the time, at all events, that Dalrymple returned to tell me it was past one o’clock in the morning, and I must be introduced to the mistress of the house before leaving, my head was as completely turned as that of old Time himself.

“Past one!” I exclaimed.  “Impossible!  We cannot have been here half-an hour.”

At which neither Dalrymple nor Madame de Marignan could forbear smiling.

“I hope our acquaintance is not to end here, monsieur,” said Madame de Marignan.  “I live in the Rue Castellane, and am at home to my friends every Wednesday evening.”

I bowed almost to my boots.

“And to my intimates, every morning from twelve to two,” she added very softly, with a dimpled smile that went straight to my heart, and set it beating like the paddle-wheels of a steamer.

I stammered some incoherent thanks, bowed again, nearly upset a servant with a tray of ices, and, covered with confusion, followed Dalrymple into the farther room.  Here I was introduced to Madame de Courcelles, a pale, aristocratic woman some few years younger than Madame de Marignan, and received a gracious invitation to all her Monday receptions.  But I was much less interested in Madame de Courcelles than I should have been a couple of hours before.  I scarcely looked at her, and five minutes after I was out of her presence, could not have told whether she was fair or dark, if my life had depended on it!

“What say you to walking home?” said Dalrymple, as we went down stairs.  “It is a superb night, and the fresh air would be delightful after these hot rooms.”

I assented gladly; so we dismissed the cab, and went out, arm-in-arm, along a labyrinth of quiet streets lighted by gas-lamps few and far between, and traversed only by a few homeward-bound pedestrians.  Emerging presently at the back of the Madeleine, we paused for a moment to admire the noble building by moonlight; then struck across the Marche aux Fleurs and took our way along the Boulevard.

“Are you tired, Damon?” said Dalrymple presently.

“Not in the least,” I replied, with my head full of Madame de Marignan.

“Would you like to look in at an artists’ club close by here, where I have the entree?—­queer place enough, but amusing to a stranger.”

“Yes, very much.”

“Come along, then; but first button up your overcoat to the throat, and tie this colored scarf round your neck.  See, I do the same.  Now take off your gloves—­that’s it.  And give your hat the least possible inclination to the left ear.  You may turn up the bottoms of your trousers, if you like—­anything to look a little slangy.”