“Would you mind telling me, Florimel, what you mean by the impropriety of having secrets with another gentleman? Am I the other gentleman?”
“Why, of course! You know Liftore imagines he has only to name the day.”
“And you allow an idiot like that to cherish such a degrading idea of you.”
“Why, Raoul! what does it matter what a fool like him thinks?”
“If you don’t mind it, I do. I feel it an insult to me that he should dare think of you like that.”
“I don’t know. I suppose I shall have to marry him some day.”
“Lady Lossie, do you want to make me hate you?”
“Don’t be foolish, Raoul. It won’t be to-morrow—nor the next day. Freuet euch des Lebens!”
“O Florimel! what is to come of this? Do you want to break my heart? —I hate to talk rubbish. You won’t kill me—you will only ruin my work, and possibly drive me mad.”
Florimel drew close to his side, laid her hand on his arm, and looked in his face with a witching entreaty.