He coughed pompously. “I expect I should be,” he said, modestly. “Temptations are—er—er—Oh! I say, you know, I say—I don’t know what to say——”
“Oh, what a pity!” I said, regretfully. “I was hoping to hear all about it from you—specially if you are one yourself, you must know——”
He looked gratified, but still confused.
“You see when you are quite alone in London, some man may make love to you.”
“Oh! do you think so really?” I asked, aghast. “That, I suppose would be frightful, if I were by myself in the room! Would it be all right, do you think, if I left the sitting-room door open, and kept Véronique on the other side?”
He looked at me hard, but he only saw the face of an unprotected angel, and, becoming reassured, he said gravely,
“Yes, it might be just as well!”
“You do surprise me about love,” I said. “I had no idea it was a violent kind of thing like that. I thought it began with grave reverence and respect—and after years of offering flowers and humble compliments, and bread and butter at tea-parties, the gentleman went down upon one knee and made a declaration—‘Clara, Maria, I adore you, be mine,’ and then one put out a lily-white hand, and, blushing, told him to rise—but that can’t be your sort, and you have not yet explained what temptation means?”
“It means more or less wanting to do what you ought not to.”