“No, indeed! It would really embarrass me.”
“Nonsense!”
“Yes, it would. You make me feel timid.”
“And why, pray?”
“Because—because you are neither young enough nor old enough—”
The painter laughed.
“After such a reason as that I will insist no more.”
She blushed suddenly, up to the white brow, where the waves of hair began to ripple, and resumed, with an air of slight confusion:
“Mamma told me to say to you that she will be down immediately, and to ask you whether you will go to the Bois de Boulogne with us.”
“Yes, certainly. You are alone?”