"Yes, that's quite true," she said thoughtfully, "I am always in pink. You don't like that?"
"Not like it? I—good heavens!—why, I think it is perfectly charming! I tell you, Bijou, that if I were not an old man, I should make love to you all the time!"
"You are not an old man!"
"Very many thanks! If, however, you do not look upon me as quite an old man—which, by the bye, is certainly debatable—I am at any rate a married man."
"Yes, that's true, and so much the better for you, for there is nothing more stupid and tiresome than men who are always making love."
"Well, then, you must know a terrible number of people who are stupid and tiresome."
"Why?"
"Because everyone makes love to you—more or less!"
"Not at all! Why, just think! I was brought up in the most isolated way, like a veritable savage. When papa and mamma were living, they were always ill, and I was shut up with them, and never saw anyone. It is scarcely four years since I came to live with grandmamma, where I do see people."
"Oh, yes; plenty of them, and no mistake!"