Barbara laughed.
Something of security that would not even take the trouble to dispute the point, pierced through that cool, self-confident little laugh of hers.
Later on, she told Alex, with rather overdone matter-of-factness, that a young Frenchman, a cousin of Hélène de la Hautefeuille, had fallen very much in love with her at Neuilly.
Alex at first pretended not to believe her, although she felt an uncomfortable inward certainty that Barbara would never waste words on an idle boast that could not be substantiated.
"You need not believe me if you don't want to," said Barbara indifferently.
"But how could you know? I thought the Marquise was so particular?"
"So she was. They all are, in France, with jeunes filles. It's ridiculous. But, of course, as Hélène was his cousin, they weren't quite so strict, and he used to give her notes and things for me."
"Barbara!"
"You needn't be so shocked, Alex. Of course, I never wrote to him—that would have been too stupid; but he's very nice, and simply madly in love with me. Hélène said he always admired le type Anglais, and that I was his ideal."
Alex was thoroughly angered at the complacency in Barbara's voice.