off his boots, which were damp and covered with mud, I was perfectly conscious that the perfumes of my neck were exciting his nose, and that his eyes were following with increasing interest the outlines of my form as seen through my gown. Suddenly he murmured :
"Great heavens! Célestine, but you smell good."
Without raising my eyes, I assumed an air of innocence:
"I, Monsieur?"
"Surely, you; it can hardly be my feet."
"Oh! Monsieur!"
And this "Oh! Monsieur!" at the same time that it was a protest in favor of his feet, was also a sort of friendly reprimand,—friendly to the point of encouragement,—for his familiarity. Did he understand? I think so, for again, with more force, and even with a sort of amorous trembling, he repeated:
"Célestine, you smell awfully good,—awfully good."
Ah! but the old gentleman is making free. I appeared as if slightly scandalized by his insistence, and kept silence. Timid as he is, and knowing nothing of the tricks of women, Monsieur was disturbed. He feared undoubtedly that he had gone too far, and, suddenly changing his idea, he asked:
