tained permission to smoke, “is it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado—or both, or the Nouveau Cirque, or———”
“It is here,” said Valentine.
“Well,” he said, greatly flattered, “I’m afraid I couldn’t amuse you———”
“Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado.”
“Now see here, don't guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,—you know what they say,—a good laugh kills———”
“What?”
“Er—er—love and all that.”
She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. “Tiens,” she cried, “he is dead, then!”
Clifford eyed her with growing alarm.
“Do you know why I came?” she said.
“No,” he replied uneasily, “I don’t.”
“How long have you made love to me?”
“Well,” he admitted, somewhat startled,—“I should say,—for about a year.”
“It is a year, think. Are you not tired?”
He did not answer.
“Don’t you know that I like you too well to—to ever fall in love with you?” she said. “Don’t you know that we are too good comrades,—too old friends for that? And were we not,—do you think that I do not know your history, Monsieur Clifford?”
“Don’t be,—don’t be so sarcastic,” he urged, “don’t be unkind, Valentine.”
“I’m not. I’m kind. I’m very kind,—to you and to Cécile.”
“Cécile is tired of me.”
“I hope she is,” said the girl, “for she deserves a better fate. Tiens, do you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the in-
