And turning on his heel he followed the men.
Madame St.Lo sighed complacently.

"Heigho!" she said.

"He's right! We are never content, _ma mie_! When I am trifling in the Gallery my heart is in the greenwood.

And when I have eaten black bread and drank spring water for a fortnight I do nothing but dream of Zamet's, and white mulberry tarts! And you are in the same case.

You have saved your round white neck, or it has been saved for you, by not so much as the thickness of Zamet's pie-crust--I declare my mouth is beginning to water for it!--and instead of being thankful and making the best of things, you are thinking of poor Madame d'Yverne, or dreaming of your calf-love!" The girl's face--for a girl she was, though they called her Madame--began to work.