"No, monsieur; I had the honour of being quite alone with Mademoiselle."
"C'est joli—cela," observed M. Pelet, and he smiled and looked into the fire.
"Honi soit qui mal y pense," murmured I significantly.
"Je connais un peu ma petite voisine—voyez-vous."
"In that case Monsieur will be able to aid me in finding out what was Mademoiselle's reason for making me sit before her sofa, one mortal hour, listening to the most copious and fluent dissertation on the merest frivolities."
"She was sounding your character."
"I thought so, monsieur."
"Did she find out your weak point?"
"What is my weak point?"
"Why the sentimental. Any woman, sinking her shaft deep enough, will at last reach a fathomless spring of sensibility in thy breast, Crimsworth."
