Miss St. Clair could hardly have been more mute and statue-like if she had been born and bred in France, where in the presence of gentlemen young girls silently adhere to their brilliant mothers, whose wit and grace and social tact make the charm of the Parisian salons.  Apparently, the French consider that the combined attractions of youthful faces and sprightly conversation would be too much for any man, and mercifully divide the two.  And this leaves them helpless before a little American girl, laughing, talking, jesting, teasing, till, bewildered by such a phenomenon, they are swept down so easily that one is reminded of Attila’s taunt to the Romans, “The thicker the grass, the quicker it is mowed.”

This social etiquette was very irksome to my little firefly, who seemed always opening and shutting her wings.  In the course of the evening M. Vergniaud slipped into her hand, unperceived by any of us, a closed envelope with the whisper, “Put it in your pocket.  Do not let any one see you.”

She opened it deliberately:  “M.  Vergniaud is so kind as to give me his photograph, Madame Fleming.  Do you think it a good likeness?”

The mystery which French people are fond of attaching to harmless trifles is inconceivable.  One evening, in the earlier part of our stay in Paris, a cousin of Miss St. Clair’s, who was in the same hotel with Mr. Denham, called on us, and when he was taking leave she held out an unsealed note:  “Will you give this to Fred?  Don’t forget it.”

Madame Le Fort was thunderstruck:  “Is it possible?  Send a note to a young gentleman right before Madame Fleming and all of us!”

“Why,” said I, “do young people never write notes to each other in France?” “Not openly like that—­little three-cornered notes to slip into the hand while dancing.”

“This is the way to fold them,” said Clarice, taking up a small sheet of paper.  “You see that will just fit into the hollow of the hand, and nobody could ever see it.”

“I like our way much better.  What is done openly is not half so mischievous.”

“Nor half so interesting,” rejoined Clarice.

The nimble hours danced on, as they had a trick of doing in Madame Le Fort’s salon.  “I am afraid you forget the three balls, M. Vergniaud.”

“How can you be so cruel, mademoiselle?  I shall only make my compliments to the hostess and dance one set at each.  I never do more except when I come here.”

A few days later I asked Helen, “Have you made up your mind what answer to give M. Vergniaud?  He intends to write to your father.  He was speaking to me about it again to-day.”

“I won’t have him writing to my father,” she replied with her wonted impetuosity.  “I will not have my father worried about nothing.  It would be a month before I could set it right.”

“He seems to be very much in love with you.  He says he shall be in despair, wretched for ever, if you reject him.”