"Only of the past; I care not for the future, which is too uncertain to be trusted, and which may have nothing but misfortunes in reserve for me."
"You are in a pensive mood, just now," said De Valette; "when I last saw you, I could scarce have believed a cloud would ever cross the sunshine of your face."
"Experience might have rendered you more discerning," she answered, with a smile; "but you, who love variety so well, should not complain of the changes of my mood."
"Change, as often as you will," said De Valette; "and, in every variation, you cannot fail to please."
"And you," said Luciè, "cannot fail of seeming very foolish, till you leave off this annoying habit of turning every word into a compliment:—nay, do not look displeased," she added, gaily; "you know that you deserve reproof, occasionally, and there is no one who will administer it to you, but myself."
"But what you define a compliment," said Stanhope, "would probably appear, to any other person, the simple language of sincerity."
"I cannot contend against two opponents," returned Luciè; "so I may as well give up my argument, though I still maintain its validity."
"We will call it a drawn game, then," said De Valette, laughing; "so now, Luciè, candidly confess that you were disposed to find fault with me, without sufficient cause."
"There is certainly no flattery in this," replied Luciè; "but I will confess nothing,—except that I danced away my spirits last evening, and was most melodiously disturbed afterwards, by some strolling minstrel. Were you not annoyed by unseasonable music, Mr. Stanhope?"