He brushed his face with his handkerchief, gave himself a pull here and a pat there, and led the way down the alley.  But we had not gone far before he turned into a path that entered the grove on the right, and to this likewise I made no protest.  We soon found ourselves in a heavenly spot,—­sheltered from the sun’s rays by a dense verdure,—­and no one who has not visited these Southern country places can know the teeming fragrance there.  One shrub (how well I recall it!) was like unto the perfume of all the flowers and all the fruits, the very essence of the delicious languor of the place that made our steps to falter.  A bird shot a bright flame of color through the checkered light ahead of us.  Suddenly a sound brought us to a halt, and we stood in a tense and wondering silence.  The words of a song, sung carelessly in a clear, girlish voice, came to us from beyond.

“Je voudrais bien me marier,
Je voudrais bien me marier,
Mais j’ai qrand’ peur de me tromper: 
Mais j’ai grand’ peur de me tromper: 
Ils sont si malhonnetes! 
Ma luron, ma lurette,
Ils sont si malhonnetes! 
Ma luron, ma lure.”

“We have come at the very zenith of opportunity,” I whispered.

“Hush!” he said.

“Je ne veux pas d’un avocat,
Je ne veux pas d’un avocat,
Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
Ils trompent les fillettes,
Ma luron, ma lurette,
Ils trompent les fillettes,
Ma luron, ma lure.”

“Eliminating Mr. Ritchie, I believe,” said Nick, turning on me with a grimace.  “But hark again!”

“Je voudrais bien d’un officier: 
Je voudrais bien d’un officier: 
Je marcherais a pas carres,
Je marcherais a pas carres,
Dans ma joli’ chambrette,
Ma luron, ma lurette
Dans ma joli’ chambrette,
Ma luron, ma lure.”

The song ceased with a sound that was half laughter, half sigh.  Before I realized what he was doing, Nick, instead of retracing his steps towards the house, started forward.  The path led through a dense thicket which became a casino hedge, and suddenly I found myself peering over his shoulder into a little garden bewildering in color.  In the centre of the garden a great live-oak spread its sheltering branches.  Around the gnarled trunk was a seat.  And on the seat,—­her sewing fallen into her lap, her lips parted, her eyes staring wide, sat the young lady whom we had seen on the levee the evening before.  And Nick was making a bow in his grandest manner.

“Helas, Mademoiselle,” he said, “je ne suis pas officier, mais on peut arranger tout cela, sans doute.”

My breath was taken away by this unheard-of audacity, and I braced myself against screams, flight, and other feminine demonstrations of terror.  The young lady did nothing of the kind.  She turned her back to us, leaned against the tree, and to my astonishment I saw her slim shoulders shaken with laughter.  At length, very slowly, she looked around, and in her face struggled curiosity and fear and merriment.  Nick made another bow, worthy of Versailles, and she gave a frightened little laugh.