I

And turning to the left, they entered a kind of covered garden, cooled by two large and ugly fountains. Men and women were drinking at zinc tables placed beneath evergreen trees growing in boxes.

“Another bock, eh?” said Forestier.

“Willingly.”

They sat down and watched the passing throng.

From time to time a woman would stop and ask, with stereotyped smile: “Are you going to stand me anything?”

And as Forestier answered: “A glass of water from the fountain,” she would turn away, muttering: “Go on, you duffer.”

But the stout brunette, who had been leaning, just before, against the box occupied by the two comrades, reappeared, walking proudly arm-in-arm with the stout blonde. They were really a fine pair of women, well matched.

She smiled on perceiving Duroy, as though their eyes had already told secrets, and, taking a chair, sat down quietly in face of him, and making her friend sit down, too, gave the order in a clear voice: “Waiter, two grenadines!”

Forestier, rather surprised, said: “You make yourself at home.”

She replied: “It is your friend that captivates me. He is really a pretty fellow. I believe that I could make a fool of myself for his sake.”

Duroy, intimidated, could find nothing to say. He twisted his curly moustache, smiling in a silly fashion. The waiter brought the drinks, which the women drank off at a draught; then they rose, and the brunette, with a friendly nod of the head, and a tap on the arm with her fan, said to Duroy: “Thanks, dear, you are not very talkative.”