“Well, Valerie, I suppose I must believe that earnest face, and that honest little laugh of yours.”
“You may just as well do so, indeed,” I replied; “for no one was ever in love with me, I assure you. And I do not think,” I added, with a touch of the old pride, “that a de Chatenoeuf is likely to give away a heart that is not desired.”
“It is all very strange,” he added. “And this Monsieur Lionel Dempster?”
“Is a little older than poor Pierre, whom I used to pinch when I wanted to get out of my mother’s reach, and regards me very much as he would a much elder sister—almost, indeed, as a mother.”
“A mother, indeed, Valerie!”
“He once told me something of the kind! He is a very fine young man, certainly, full of talent and spirit, and will make you a very good and agreeable friend—but he is no husband for me, I assure you! He would do much better for Sophie, or Elisée, if he ever should see and like either of them.”
“Always busy for others, Valerie! And for yourself—when will you think for yourself?”
“I think I have thought, and done, too, for myself, pretty well. You forget my twenty-five hundred livres de rente.”
“But twenty-five hundred livres de rente are not a husband, Valerie.”
“I am not so sure about that. I daresay they would buy one at a pinch,” I replied, laughing; “at least, in our poor country, where everyone you meet in society is not a millionaire, like those cold islanders.”