much money she could make by her sales.  Madame Strahlberg, the oldest of the Odinskas, obviously expected to sell only to gentlemen; her table held pyramids of cigars and cigarettes, but nothing else was in the corner where she presided, supple and frail, not handsome, but far more dangerous than if she had been, with her unfathomable way of looking at you with her light eyes set deep under her eyebrows, eyes that she kept half closed, but which were yet so keen, and the cruel smile that showed her little sharp teeth.  Her dress was of black grenadine embroidered with silver.  She wore half mourning as a sort of announcement that she was a widow, in hopes that this might put a stop to any wicked gossip which should assert that Count Strahlberg was still living, having got a divorce and been very glad to get it.  Yet people talked about her, but hardly knew what to bring against her, because, though anything might be suspected, nothing was known.  She was received and even sought after in the best society, on account of her wonderful talents, which she employed in a manner as perverse as everything else about her, but which led some people to call her the ‘Judic des salons’.  Wanda Strahlberg was now holding between her lips, which were artificially red, in contrast to the greenish paleness of her face, which caused others to call her a vampire, one of the cigarettes she had for sale.  With one hand, she was playing, graceful as a cat, with her last package of regalias, tied with green ribbon, which, when offered to the highest bidder, brought an enormous sum.  Her sister Colette was selling flowers, like several other young girls, but while for the most part these waited on their customers in silence, she was full of lively talk, and as unblushing in her eagerness to sell as a ‘bouquetiere’ by profession.  She had grown dangerously pretty.  Fred was dazzled when she wanted to fasten a rose into his buttonhole, and then, as he paid for it, gave him another, saying:  “And here is another thrown in for old acquaintance’ sake.”

“Charity seems to cover many things,” thought the young man as he withdrew from her smiles and her glances, but yet he had seen nothing so attractive among the black, yellow, green or tattooed ladies about whom Jacqueline had been pleased to tease him.

“Fred!”

It was Jacqueline’s voice that arrested him.  It was sharp and almost angry.  She, too, was selling flowers, while at the same time she was helping Madame de Nailles with her toys; but she was selling with that decorum and graceful reserve which custom prescribes for young girls.  “Fred, I do hope you will wear no roses but mine.  Those you have are frightful.  They make you look like a village bridegroom.  Take out those things; come!  Here is a pretty boutonniere, and I will fasten it much better in your buttonhole—­let me.”