"Il a l'air joliment bête," Marie said to me once in the loud security of the French language as we passed the gallant youth. He must have thought the remark was a flattering one, because he looked even more seraphically pleasant than usual. Dasy was his surname. He lacked the i which would have given him some claim upon the dainty characteristics of that little flower.

Mr. Dasy amused me. The delectable idea occurred to me to use him. I would cultivate his society. I would make Arthur desperately jealous. I had always heard that those bashful, rose-colored youths were the most dangerous, and if I had heard it, surely my husband had. Who could possibly introduce us? Of course I could smile at him and encourage him that way, but I was not inclined to have recourse to the methods of an unscrupulous flirt, when I was very far from being one. How I wished that flirting came as naturally to me as it did to some women.

I could call on Mamma Dasy if I liked. Neighborly courtesy would surely sanction that, but I felt I could not do it. I had an awful idea that this mamma might patronize me. I had a