“I do not know—yet. I have not known you. We shall see.”
She was perfectly serene and perfectly serious. It startled him. “By Jove!” he said to himself, “things move rapidly in this country.” He was right. France has a way of omitting unessentials and of disregarding shams and subterfuges. If there is a destination to arrive at, France does not walk around the block to reach it, but cuts straight across.
“You are sure you are not married?” she said. “You tell the truth?”
“I’m not, and I’m not going to be,” he said, decidedly. At least he would put an end to any such speculations.
“Pourquoi?” There it was again, that direct, troublesome why.
“Because I don’t like it. I don’t want to be married.”
She nodded. Apparently the reason was perfectly good and sufficient to her. She directed her attention to the play.
“Now,” she said, “thees ol’ man he has make love to thees yo’ng girl. Also he has promise her much money, and she will love him.”
“I don’t like that,” he said. “I can see, maybe, why people should love each other and all that, but the money part of it! I don’t like that at all. That isn’t—good.”
“Pourquoi? It is that a girl must live. She must eat. Because she loves must she starve?”