"Ah, but her aunt, Mees Wentsteele, she geeve her one dot: two thousand hundred dollar. Eet weell be a meellion francs, ees eet not?"
"So you get a million francs for yourself, Count. It is more than I should have thought you worth."
"But de teettle!"
"Oh, the title is worth something, but I could buy one a good deal cheaper. If I remember correctly I might have had yours for nothing, Count."
The Count did not look entirely pleased at this reminiscence, but he smiled, and again took refuge in a compliment.
"To one so ravissante as madame all teettles are under her feet."
"I wish you would set up a school for compliments here in Boston, Count, and teach our men to say nice things. Really, a Boston man's compliments are like molasses candy, they are so home-made. But why don't you take the aunt instead of the niece? Miss Wentstile is worth half a million."
"Dat weell be mouche," responded the Count with gravity; "but she have bones."
The widow laughed lightly. The woman who after forty can laugh like a girl is one who has preserved her power over men, and she is generally one fully aware of the fact. Mrs. Neligage had no greater charm than her light-hearted laugh, which no care could permanently subdue. She tossed her head, and then shook it at the Count.
"Yes," she responded, "you are unfortunately right. She has bones. By the way, do you happen to have with you that letter I gave you at Mrs. Harbinger's yesterday?"