"Oh," I said, "don't try to play the simpleton with me. You are perfectly well aware that isn't why I cut you."
"But why, then?" cried she, admirably counterfeiting (as I took for granted) a look and accent of bewilderment.
I walked on without speaking. She kept beside me.
"But why, then? If it isn't that, what is it?"
"Oh, bah!"
"I insist upon your telling me. Tell me."
"Very good, then. I don't care to know a girl who lives 'collée' with a gaga," I said, brutally.
P'tit-Bleu flushed suddenly, and faced me with blazing eyes.
"Comment! You believe that?" she cried.
"Pooh!" said I.
"Oh, mais non, mais non, mais non, alors! You don't believe that?"
"You pay me a poor compliment. Why should you expect me to be ignorant of a thing the whole Quarter knows?"
"Oh, the whole Quarter! What does that matter to me, your Quarter? Those nasty little students! C'est dela crasse, quoi! They may believe—they may say—what they like. Oh, ça m'est bien égal!" with a shake of the head and a skyward gesture. "But you—but my friends! Am I that sort of girl? Answer."
"There's only one sort of girl in the precincts of this University," declared her disenchanted interlocutor. "You're all of one pattern. The man's an ass who expects any good from any of you. Don't pose as better than the others. You're all a—un tas de saletés. I'm sick and tired of the whole sordid, squalid lot of you. I should be greatly obliged, now, if you would have the kindness to leave me. Go back to your gaga. He'll be impatient waiting."
That speech, I fancied, would rid me of her. But no.
"You
