Martha, too, was smitten.

“What a charming man!” she said to herself.  “Oh, to have such a coupe!  But pearl-gray—­I should want it pearl-gray.”

Then they discussed jewelry, dresses, hats, stuffs.  And Raoul proved on all those questions, if possible, more remarkable than ever.  He had paid so many bills to great dress-makers, great milliners, and great jewellers!  He had been present at so many conferences on the cut of such a dress or the arrangement of such a costume, at so many scenes of trying on and draping!  And as he drew easily, he willingly threw his ideas on paper, as he said, neatly.  He had even designed the costumes of a little piece—­played in I do not know what little theatre—­which was revolutionary, anarchistic, symbolistic, decadent, end of the century, end of the world.

He took his little note-book and began to outline with a light hand, in spite of the movement of the train, several of his creations.  He had tact, and thought of everything.  “It was,” he said, “for charades played in society at my friend’s, the baron so and so.”  He invented the baron, and gave him a resonant name.

Martha was delighted.  Never had a man, since she had been allowed to chat a little with young men, seemed to her to have such an original and interesting conversation.

“Lately,” said Raoul, “one of my cousins—­she often applies to me—­consulted me about a dress for a ball at Nice, during the carnival.  This is what I advised her.  See, I draw at the same time—­look.”

Oh, how she did look!

“I am going to try to make myself well understood.  A foundation of smooth white satin, clinging, very clinging—­blue, I adore blue.”

That pained her; she disliked blue.

“Yes, very clinging; my cousin has a delightful figure, and can stand it.”

He took Martha’s figure in with a hasty glance, and the glance seemed to say, “You could, too.”  She understood and blushed, charmed with that delicate flattery.  Raoul continued: 

“Pale, very pale blue satin.  Then on my foundation I threw an over-dress of pompadour lace of very soft tones:  greens, pinks, mauves, cream, and azure.  Very large sleeves with a double puff of blue velvet, wristlets of Venetian point.  Am I clear?”

“Oh, very clear, very clear.”

And in an excited voice she repeated: 

“A double puff of blue velvet, with wristlets of Venetian point.”

All of a sudden the brakes scraped, and the train came sharply to a stop.  One heard the cry of “Macon!  Macon!”

“Macon already!” said Martha.

That “already” rang delightfully in Raoul’s ears.  There was much in that already.  Raoul profited by the five minutes’ stop to complete and fix his little sketch, which was slightly jolted; and he did not notice that his young brother-in-law had been sent out with a despatch to the telegraph-office.  The despatch had been secretly written by Mme. Derame, and had, too, been directed to the Old Club.