“You must not. You must not.” Her accents were those of quick alarm.
“Do you love either of them?”
“A poor girl must have friends.”
“Yet you would drive me away.”
“Ah, Master Dauban, do you believe all a poor girl says?” and she sighed and cast a languishing look on him.
“You hate me and wish never to see me again. You said so.”
“Must every maiden wear her heart on her sleeve, Master Dauban, for you handsome gallants to trifle with?”
“My name is Jacques, by your leave.”
“’Tis the sweetest of names;” and Lucette sighed and looked down; then started and dashed a look at him and cried as if in distress—“Go away, Master Dauban. You make me so—oh, I don’t know how to say it. I feel—oh, do go away. You make me feel so serious and so—so sad. Ah me!”
“You say those things to Denys and Antoine—and others.”