THE AMERICAN
you; after you're married you 'll be good for nothing. Allons, promise!"
"I never sign a paper without reading it first," said Newman. "Show me your document."
"No, you must sign with your eyes shut; I 'll hold your hand. Voyons, before you put your head into the noose you ought to be thankful for me giving you a chance to do something amusing."
"If it's so amusing," said Newman, "it will be in even better season after I'm married."
"In other words," she cried, "you 'll not do it at all, for then you 'll be afraid of your wife."
"Oh, if the thing violates the moral law—pardon my strong language!—I won't go into it. If it does n't I shall be quite as ready for it after my marriage."
"Oh, you people, with your moral law—I wonder that with such big words in your mouth you don't all die of choking!" Madame Urbain declared. "You talk like a treatise on logic, and English logic into the bargain. Promise then after you're married," she went on. "After all, I shall enjoy keeping you to it."
"Well, then after I'm married," said Newman serenely.
She hesitated a moment, looking at him, and he wondered what was coming. "I suppose you know what my life is," she presently said. "I've no pleasure, I see nothing, I do nothing. I live in Paris as I might live at Poitiers. My mother-in-law calls me—what is the pretty word?—a gadabout; accuses me of going to unheard-of places and thinks it ought to be joy enough for me to sit at home and
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