'Tite Poulette was already kneeling in the aisle.

Zalli, still in the vestibule, was just taking her hand from the font of holy-water.
"Madame John," whispered the manager.
She courtesied.
"Madame John, that young lady--is she your daughter ?" "She--she--is my daughter," said Zalli, with somewhat of alarm in her face, which the manager misinterpreted.
"I think not, Madame John." He shook his head, smiling as one too wise to be fooled.
"Yes, Monsieur, she is my daughter." "O no, Madame John, it is only make-believe, I think." "I swear she is, Monsieur de la Rue." "Is that possible ?" pretending to waver, but convinced in his heart of hearts, by Zalli's alarm, that she was lying.

"But how?
Why does she not come to our ball-room with you ?" Zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged and smiled.

"Each to his taste, Monsieur; it pleases her not." She was escaping, but he followed one step more.

"I shall come to see you, Madame John." She whirled and attacked him with her eyes.