who heard me (quite by chance, I assure you) complaining to Mrs. Cholmondeley of my distressed circumstances, and what straits I was put to for an ornament or two—somebody, far from grudging one a present, was quite delighted at the idea of being permitted to offer some trifle. You should have seen what a blanc- bec he looked when he first spoke of it—how he hesitated and blushed, and positively trembled from fear of a repulse.”
“That will do, Miss Fanshawe. I suppose I am to understand that M. Isidore is the benefactor; that it is from him you have accepted that costly parure; that he supplies your bouquets and your gloves.”
“You express yourself so disagreeably,” said she, “one hardly knows how to answer. What I mean to say is, that I occasionally allow Isidore the pleasure and honour of expressing his homage by the offer of a trifle.”
“It comes to the same thing. Now, Ginevra, to speak the plain truth, I don’t very well understand these matters; but I believe you are doing very wrong—seriously wrong. Perhaps, however, you now feel certain that you will be able to marry M. Isidore; your parents and uncle have given their consent, and, for your part, you love him entirely?”
“Mais pas du tout!” (She always had recourse to French when about to say something specially heartless and perverse.) “Je suis sa reine, mais il n’est pas mon roi.”
“Excuse me. I must believe this language is mere nonsense and coquetry. There is nothing great about you, yet you are above profiting by the good-nature and purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference. You love M. Isidore far more than you think or will avow.”
“No. I danced with a young officer the other night whom I love a thousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold to Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire him; but somehow he bores me. Let me see now how it is.”
And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her. “Yes,” I said; “try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To me it seems in a great mess—chaotic as a rag-bag.”
“It is something in this fashion,” she cried out ere long. “The man is too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect—furnished with all sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues such as I never had nor intend to have. Now, one can’t help in his presence rather trying to justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to talk sense—for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my ease with you, old lady—you, you dear crosspatch, who take me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, and fickle, and silly, and selfish; and all the other sweet things you and I have agreed to be a part of my character.”
“This is all very well,” I said, making a strenuous effort to preserve that gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by this whimsical candour, “but it does not alter that wretched business of the presents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like a good, honest girl, and send them back.”
“Indeed, I won’t,” said she stoutly.
“Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that by accepting his presents you give him to understand he will one day receive an equivalent, in your regard.”
“But he won’t,” she interrupted. “He has his equivalent now, in the pleasure of seeing me wear them—quite enough for him; he is only bourgeois.”
This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of the temporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. She rattled on,—