“Oh, Marie,” said Ruth reproachfully, “how can you say so!”
“Because I do—I do,” she cried. “I’m not a soft, smooth thing like you. If this lasts much longer I shall poison them, so as to be hung out of my misery.”
“I shan’t,” said Clotilde. “I say I’ll marry the first man who asks me. I will marry him; I’ll make him marry me; and then—ah,” she cried fiercely, as she started up, and began pacing up and down, beautiful as some caged leopard, “once I am free, what I will do! We might as well be nuns.”
“Better,” cried Marie angrily, “for we should be real prisoners, and expect no better. Now we are supposed to be free.”
“And there’d be some nice fat old father confessors to tease. Better than the smooth-faced, saintly Paul Montaigne. Oh, how I would confess!” cried Clotilde.
“Old Paul’s a prig,” said Marie.
“He’s a humbug, I think,” said Clotilde.
“Bother your nice old fat father confessors,” cried Marie, with her eyes gleaming. “I should like them to be young, and big, and strong, and handsome.”
“And with shaven crowns,” said Clotilde maliciously. “How should you like them, Ruth?”
“I don’t know,” said Ruth simply. “I have never thought of such a thing.”