He stopped short. “Pardon me, ladies; I believe that I was on the point of saying something foolish.”

“Fie, sir” said la Gaillefontaine.

“He talks to that creature in her own tongue!” added Fleur-de-Lys, in a low tone, her irritation increasing every moment. This irritation was not diminished when she beheld the captain, enchanted with the gypsy, and, most of all, with himself, execute a pirouette on his heel, repeating with coarse, na�ve, and soldierly gallantry, —

“A handsome wench, upon my soul!”

“Rather savagely dressed,” said Diane de Christeuil, laughing to show her fine teeth.

This remark was a flash of light to