"And seemly within a two-days' acquaintanceship, monsieur?"
Her pride, the haughty little smile curling her pretty lip, maddened him.
He bent towards her.
"Seemly or unseemly," he said in low, tense tones, "you shall love me!"
Her dark eyes flashed.
"I shall not, monsieur!" she cried, and shut her small teeth closely.
With a haughty inclination of her pretty head, she left him—left him amongst the roses, in the sunshine, but cold at heart at what he had done.
He wooed her persistently. He was persistent by nature, and all his life he had never wanted anything as he wanted her. He bore the discomforts of the little inn without a murmur, and every day the roses on the little twisting paths found him among them.
Mademoiselle was proud and cold; mademoiselle was proud and mocking, proud and wilful, proud and laughing, proud and non-comprehending—every mood in the world, one after another, was mademoiselle, but proud always—proud with them all. And at last he lost heart.