"Obviously," she said coolly. "Nowadays one only marries when every other possibility of existence is exhausted."
He examined her gravely.
"The bon Dieu will not forgive you that," he said slowly.
"Why not?"
"Because you don't mean what you say. Whatever Hermia was—Yvonne at least is honest. She knows as I do that she will not marry for the reasons you mention."
She accepted his reproof smilingly and thrust out her hand—a browner hand now, a ringless, earnest little hand—and put it into his.
"You are right, Philidor, I shall marry—if I may—for love. Or—I shall not marry at all."
He turned his palm upward, but before he could seize her fingers she had eluded him.
"But I'm not ready yet, Philidor," she laughed, "and when I am I shall not seek a husband on the highroads of Vagabondia."
Her speech puzzled him for a moment. In it were mingled craft and artlessness with a touch of dignity to make it unassailable. But in a moment she was laughing gaily. "Whom shall it be? Cleofonte is married. Luigi? He has a temper—"