“What does your mother say?”
“Oh! she was as quiet as usual.”
“How about yourself?”
“Alas! I have to bear a thousand mortifications every day. They are continually reproaching me with having fallen in love with this Frenchman, and bringing them to this dreadful pass.”
“Were you really in love with him?”
“Yes, really.”
“Then you must be very unhappy.”
“Yes, very; but not on account of my love, for I shall get over that in time, but because of that which will happen to-morrow.”
“Can’t you make any conquests at the table d’hote?”
“Some of the men say pretty things to me, but as they all know how poor we are they are afraid to come to our room.”