It was close on one o'clock when they once more trudged up the heights of Montmartre.

They had purchased a cake, a "mocha," in the Rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin, and they ate it in bed, seeing that the night was not warm and it was not worth while lighting a fire.

Sitting up side by side, with the bedclothes pulled up in front and the pillows piled up behind, they supped and talked about the little woman.

Nana thought her plain and lacking in style.

Fontan, lying on his stomach, passed up the pieces of cake which had been put between the candle and the matches on the edge of the night table.