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face with her hands. "She broke her leg and just can't move out of bed."

Another spasm of giggling seized her and she leaned over the table, laughing almost hysterically. Monsieur Lepetit was bewildered. What the devil was there to laugh at? At first he felt angry and insulted. But soon the infectious laughter had its effect on him, and the situation began to show its comical side. It certainly was funny. There was Monique, in bed with a broken leg, and here these two provincials were simply expiring with laughter. And, for some reason, he himself didn't feel especially put out about Monique's broken leg. It was only too bad that he had hurried to send her that check. "Bah!" he thought, and resumed his appraisal of the two girls.

Love! that was just a word. There were only women-the elegant kind and the ones not so elegant. There were the juicy ones and the dry ones, the sweet and the sour. They could be assorted and classified like a load of oranges-and all oranges had the same basic savor. Monique had something electric about her, yet refined at the same time, something only the Parisiennes of the better circles could boast of.

After Mary had taken a glass of wine, her tongue lost all control and she kept up a constant babble. Anna sat quietly, her eyes as usual, seeming to look far off. It was obvious that her shy demeanor and delicate features had captivated Monsieur Lepetit, at the very first glance, reached the deep wells of his sentimental nature, setting a whirlpool of emotion swirling around inside him. He found himself instinctively imagining her as his wife, as Colette's mother. And the thought did not shock him; on the contrary, the more he reflected over it, the more attractive did the idea seem. A strange and languorous sweetness flowed through him, almost suffusing him with a sea of longing. For a moment he