“In my time a man knew how to make a woman say yes. And a woman knew when she was going to get a good husband, which is of the Lord. Gaspard Denys, you have spoiled her!”
Yes, he had spoiled her. A man did not know how to bring up a girl. But she was so sweet in all her wilfulness, so loving in spite of little tempers and authoritative ways, so dear to him, that if she had wanted to walk over his body with her dainty feet he could hardly have refused her. He went into her room and took her in his arms.
“You are too good to me!” she cried presently. “And I am a miserable, hateful, quarrelsome, selfish little thing, wanting my own way and then not happy or satisfied with it. Oh, how will you endure me years and years, getting queerer as I grow old! For now we will have to live here together always. I have sent André away. Oh, will you care?”
There was no use arguing. She had cried herself into an unreasonable passion. She had had her way. How much of it was regret? None of it was satisfaction.
“Well, dear, then we must get along,” and his tone had a tranquillizing cheerfulness in it. “There is no one I would like as well for a son——”
“But you do not want to go to that wretched New Orleans?” in a tone of incredulity.
She raised her head from his shoulder. Her swollen eyes and tear-stained face melted his heart.
“You know we were going some time. It is well worth seeing. But we do not need to take André.”
“Yet you like him so,” with her old waywardness.
“Yes. And I am sorry you do not.”