“She has always been a very sweet, amiable, honorable child. I’m very fond of her. She was very much alone with her books and her family. She has always lived in an atmosphere of her own—an atmosphere that she made for herself, without companions of her own age. Her mother brought her up without the slightest knowledge of the guile, the deceit, or wickedness of the world in which some day she was to live. They used even to scan the newspapers before she was permitted to read them, and clip out objectionable paragraphs. Even I have done that since she has been here visiting me. Her father was always too busy making money to bother. At the age of twenty she is still a dreamer, old in nothing but years, living in an idyl of her own, the sleeping princess in the fairy-tale whom you, the gallant prince, have awakened with a kiss.”
DeLaunay’s shoulders moved slightly as he sighed.
“That kiss, Monsieur! You have awakened her,” she went on, “to what?” She paused abruptly and turned toward him for a reply.
“Your question is hardly flattering to my vanity,” he said, smiling. “There are women——”
“She is a child.”
“All women are children. I shall find means to make her happy.”
Patricia resumed her study of the fire.
“I hope so. With money your opportunities for happiness would be greater. Without money——” she paused and shook her head slowly.
The Baron turned abruptly, but Patricia’s gaze was fixed upon the fire. When he spoke his tones were suppressed—his manner constrained.
“Madame—what do you mean?”