I was deeply engaged in these speculations last night, when an elderly lady—who for some reason or other, not very easy to divine, actually never waltzes—came across the room and placed herself by my side. Though she does not waltz, she is a very charming person; and as I had often conversed with her before, I now welcomed her approach with great pleasure.
"A quoi pensez-vous, Madame Trollope?" said she: "vous avez l'air de méditer."
I deliberated for a moment whether I should venture to tell her exactly what was passing in my mind; but as I deliberated, I looked at her, and there was that in her countenance which assured me I should have no severity to fear if I put her wholly in my confidence: I therefore replied very frankly,—
"I am meditating; and it is on the position which unmarried women hold in France."
"Unmarried women?... You will scarcely find any such in France," said she.
"Are not those young ladies who have just finished their quadrille unmarried?"
"Ah!... But you cannot call them unmarried women. Elles sont des demoiselles."
"Well, then, my meditations were concerning them."
"Eh bien...."
"Eh bien.... It appears to me that the ball is not given—that the music does not play—that the gentlemen are not empressé, for them."