“Monsieur Bartot?” I asked.

She nodded.

“He is very, very jealous,” she answered.

“You go with him every night to the restaurant in the Place d’Anjou?” I asked.

“I go there very often,” she answered.  “Monsieur, unless I am mistaken, is a stranger there.”

I nodded.

“Last night,” I told her, “I was there for the first time.”

“You came,” she said, toying with her empty liqueur-glass, “with Louis.”

“That is so,” I admitted.

“Louis brings no one there without a purpose,” she remarked.

“You know Louis, then?” I asked.

She raised her eyebrows.

“All the world knows Louis,” she continued.  “A smoother-tongued rascal never breathed.”

“Louis,” I murmured, “would be flattered.”

“Louis knows himself,” she continued, “and he knows that others know him.  When I saw monsieur with him I was sorry.”

“You are very kind,” I said, “to take so much interest.”

She looked at me, for the first time, with some spice of coquetry in her eyes.

“I think that I show my interest,” she murmured, “in meeting monsieur here.  Tell me,” she continued, “why were you there with Louis?”

“A chance affair,” I answered.  “I met him coming out of the Opera.  I was bored, and we went together to the Montmartre.  There I think that I was more bored still.  It was Louis who proposed a visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles.”

“Did you know,” she asked, “that you would meet that man—­the man with whom you quarrelled?”

I shook my head.

“I had no idea of it,” I answered.

She leaned just a little towards me.

“Monsieur,” she said, “if you seek adventures over here, do not seek them with Louis.  He knows no friends, he thinks of nothing but of himself.  He is a very dangerous companion.  There are others whom it would be better for monsieur to make companions of.”

“Mademoiselle,” I answered, looking into her eyes, “these things are not so interesting.  You sent me last night a little note.  When may I see you once more in that wonderful blue gown, and take you myself to the theatre, to supper,—­where you will?”

She shot a glance at me from under her eyelids.  The blind was not drawn, and the weak sunlight played upon her features.  She was over-powdered and over-rouged, made up like all the smart women of her world, but her features were still good and her eyes delightful.

“Ah, monsieur,” she said, “but that would be doubly imprudent.  It is not, surely, well for monsieur to be seen too much in Paris to-day?  He was badly hurt, that poor Monsieur Tapilow.”

“Mademoiselle,” I assured her, “there are times when the risk counts for nothing.”

“Are all Englishmen so gallant?” she murmured.

“Mademoiselle,” I answered, “with the same inducement, yes!”

“Monsieur has learned how to flatter,” she remarked.