The cabdrivers in line along the sidewalk seemed to enjoy their neighborhood.

I heard one of them, with a face like a halfripened strawberry, red, with a white nose, say to a comrade, "Hallo, Francis! that smells good, doesn't it!" I was walking along slowly, looking into every stall, and when I came to the end I turned right about face.
Great Heavens! Not ten feet off! M.Flamaran, M.Charnot, and Mademoiselle Jeanne! They had stopped before one of the stalls that I had just left.

M.
Flamaran was carrying under his arm a pot of cineraria, which made his stomach a perfect bower.

M.Charnot was stooping, examining a superb pink carnation.

Jeanne was hovering undecided between twenty bunches of flowers, bending her pretty head in its spring hat over each in turn.
"Which, father ?" "Whichever you like; but make up your mind soon; Flamaran is waiting." A moment more, and the elective affinities carried the day.
"This bunch of mignonette," she said.
I would have wagered on it.