'I have read two of his books, and you have read one—"The Prophetic Vision," and you know how much we both liked that. As for the other—I suppose I'm not advanced enough, but it doesn't seem to me to be anything like so clearly written, nor so forcible. It seems wonderful that the same man should have written both.'
'Perhaps it was written since he has been in exile, and he was wretched and out of sorts. By the way, he doesn't seem wretched now. Now, Clare,' coming and sitting down on the rug at the other's feet and leaning her arms on the black dress, and turning her bright mignonne face upward, 'I think it is only due to our ancient friendship—which, you remember, was founded on the noble principle, halves and no secrets, that you should confide in me. What are you going to do with him? How are you going to serve him?'
'Well, dear, would it be best to grill him or to serve him on toast with caviare? How would it look on the menu? Nihiliste à la Révolution.'
'Count Litvinoff à la married man would be more humane, perhaps. I wonder how it feels to be adored by a lover who has passionate eyes and a long blond moustache, who has had no end of adventures, has as many lives as a cat, and seems to be rolling in gold, judging by the bouquets he brings to—mamma.'
'If you are very anxious to know,' said Clare, smiling and smoothing the rough head at her knee, 'you had better try to attract him; I don't fancy you would find it difficult.'
'You don't seem to have found it so. Really and truly, Clare; do you mean to be a countess? Shall you refuse him?'
'He has never asked me but one thing, and that I did not refuse.'
'What a teasing girl you are! Does that mean anything or nothing?'
'Whichever you like, sweetheart.'
'Well, he deserves a better fate than to be allowed to singe his wings at the flame of your prettiness. You always were a flirt, Clare; and I am afraid you have not improved.'