“Well, what is it you remember?” in a sweet, half malicious, half mocking tone.
“He has been with you a great deal of late. On the ice and at sledging, and at the last dance. Men of his stamp love to flirt with pretty girls—yes, love to win their hearts and then leave them in the lurch. That is what he is doing. He is not in earnest.”
That vexed her. She flushed and looked prettier than ever, but tormenting as well, as a half-veiled touch of indignation seemed to pass from her shining eyes.
“As if I cared!” with a laugh like the softest ripple.
“Then—you do not—love him?”
André’s voice had the hoarseness of an unspoken fear in it. He was amazed at the boldness of his question.
“Why should I love him? Why should I want to go away from this dear home, from Uncle Gaspard?”
“But he will persuade you——”
“Will he?” She glanced up so daring, so defiant and resolute, that he gave a happy laugh.
“That is right. Oh, Renée, child, do not let any one persuade you! You are too young. And then, by and by—yes, you will know some one cares for you with his whole soul, will lay all that he has at your feet——”