“Quite,” she retorted, “and worse.”
“Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman would have found English country life peculiarly attractive.”
“Yes! so did I,” she said with a sigh. “Pretty women,” she added meditatively, “ought to have a good time in England, since all the pleasant things are forbidden them—the very things they do every day.”
“Quite so!”
“You’ll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin,” she said earnestly, “but I often pass a whole day—a whole day—without encountering a single temptation.”
“No wonder,” retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, “that the cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ennui.”
She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike laughs.
“It must be pretty bad, mustn’t it?” she said archly, “or I should not have been so pleased to see you.”
“And this within a year of a romantic love match! . . .”
“Yes! . . . a year of a romantic love match . . . that’s just the difficulty . . .”