She took up a quill pen, which I had laid aside a moment earlier, and played with it.
"What are you writing ?" she asked, looking down at the papers before me--"your own history ?" As she spoke the pen escaped from her fingers and fell upon my papers, leaving ink stains there.
"There," she cried, with a laugh of mock despair, "I have spoilt your life." "No; but you have altered its appearance," I answered.

"Mademoiselle, I have something to say to you.

When I came here I deceived your father.

I told him that I was ruined--that my father had disowned me--that I was forced to earn my own livelihood.

It was untrue--I shall one day be as rich as your father." "Then why did you come here ?" asked the girl, for a moment grave.
"To be near you." And she broke into a laugh, shaking her head.
"I saw you in the crowd at the Fete Napoleon--I heard your voice.
There is no one in the world like you.