"And where is that pretty, golden-haired Daffodil?" she enquired.
The girl was summoned. Yes, she had outgrown childhood, but there was a delightful charm in her young womanhood.
"We were such friends—if you can remember so far back."
"And you were so good to me, and made everything so enjoyable. Wasn't I very ignorant?"
"You were very frank, and honest, and adaptable. So we must take up the old intimacy again. M. de Ronville, I shall drop in often and say, 'Lend me your daughter for this or that occasion.' Or is it your niece? And if some one falls in love with her you must not scold me. Young men have eyes, and really, I am too kindly-hearted to throw dust in them."
Daffodil turned scarlet.
"Is it quite right to go about so much?" she said to M. de Ronville afterward, and the tone had a great uncertainty in it, while the curves of her pretty mouth quivered. "For you know——"
He drew her down beside him on the sofa.
"I thought some time we would talk it over—your unfortunate marriage, I suppose, comes up now and then to haunt you. Yet, it was fortunate, too, that the explanation came just as it did. I honestly believe it was an ignorant child's fancy. You were not old enough to understand real love. I think he could hardly have been a thorough villain, but an incident like this has happened more than once. And I truly believe you have overlived it."
She shuddered, and her eyes were limpid with tears. It was good to feel his friendly arm about her.