"But they are so amusing."
"My son!"
"Pardon me, my dear mother," said Gerald, kissing his mother in spite of her strenuous efforts to prevent it. "I was wrong, yes, I was wrong. The truth is, though,—but, oh, dear! what shall I say? I don't want to horrify you again—but really, mother, vestal virgins are not to my taste, and you surely wouldn't like to see me carrying ruin and desolation into happy households, would you, mother?" he continued, in half tragic tones. "Besides, the truth is,—for virtue's sake, perhaps,—I like girls of the people better. The sanctity of marriage isn't outraged, you see, and then, as I said before, they're infinitely more amusing."
"You will excuse me from expressing any opinion on your choice of mistresses," retorted the duchess, angrily; "but it is certainly my duty to censure in the severest manner the strange frivolity of your conduct. You do not realise how you are injuring yourself."
"In what way?"
"Do you suppose that if the question of a marriage was broached—"
"A marriage?" cried Gerald; "but I've no intention of marrying, not the slightest."
"You will do me the favour to listen to me, I hope."
"I am listening."
"You know Madame de Mirecourt?"