“Well,” said Gaston, when we were in the street, “what do you think of Marguerite?”
“She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her.”
“So I guessed; did you tell her so?”
“Yes.”
“And did she promise to believe you?”
“No.”
“She is not like Prudence.”
“Did she promise to?”
“Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn’t think it; but she is still not half bad, poor old Duvernoy!”