“You have been more stupid than usual,” had been what her grandmother had never failed to say to her in Paris after one of his visits, which he alternated with bouquets.  But at Treport no one seemed to mind her being stupid, and indeed M. de Talbrun hardly thought of her existence, up to the moment when they were all nearly caught by the first wave that came rolling in over the croquet-ground, when all the girls took flight, flushed, animated, and with lively gesticulation, while the gentlemen followed with the box into which had been hastily flung hoops, balls, and mallets.

On their way Count Oscar condescendingly explained to Fred, as to a novice, that the only good thing about croquet was that it brought men and girls together.  He was himself very good at games, he said, having remarkably firm muscles and exceptionally sharp sight; but he went on to add that he had not been able to show what he could do that day.  The wet sand did not make so good a croquet-ground as the one he had had made in his park!  It is a good thing to know one’s ground in all circumstances, but especially in playing croquet.  Then, dexterously passing from the game to the players, he went on to say, under cover of giving Fred a warning, that a man need not fear going too far with those girls from America—­they had known how to flirt from the time they were born.  They could look out for themselves, they had talons and beaks; but up to a certain point they were very easy to get on with.  Those other players were queer little things; the three sisters Wermant were not wanting in chic, but, hang it!—­the sweetest flower of them all, to his mind, was the tall one, the dark one—­unripe fruit in perfection!  “And a year or two hence,” added M. de Talbrun, with all the self-confidence of an expert, “every one will be talking about her in the world of society.”

Poor Fred kept silent, trying to curb his wrath.  But the blood mounted to his temples as he listened to these remarks, poured into his ear by a man of thirty-five, between puffs of his cigar, because there was nobody else to whom he could make them.  But they seemed to Fred very ill-mannered and ill-timed.  If he had not dreaded making himself absurd, he would gladly have stood forth as the champion of the Sparks, the Wermants, and all the other members of the Blue Band, so that he might give vent to the anger raging in his heart on hearing that odious compliment to Jacqueline.  Why was he not old enough to marry her?  What right had that detestable Talbrun to take notice of any girl but his fiancee?  If he himself could marry now, his choice would soon be made!  No doubt, later—­as his mother had said to him.  But would Jacqueline wait?  Everybody was beginning to admire her.  Somebody would carry her off—­somebody would cut him out while he was away at sea.  Oh, horrible thought for a young lover!

That night, at the Casino, while dancing a quadrille with Giselle, he could not refrain from saying to her, “Don’t you object to Monsieur de Talbrun’s dancing so much with Jacqueline?”