“Flirtation means the love one makes to girls one doesn’t marry,” said he.
“In French we call that conter fleurette,” said Madame Guibert. “You are wrong, Jean. I am an old woman, so listen to me. The game is never an equal one. Girls always expect to find a husband. You deceive their lawful hopes, and you amuse yourself with them at the cost of their peace of mind and their better feelings.”
The young man listened to this little sermon with a respectful smile.
“I love to hear you talk like that,” he said. “But I see that the modern girl is a stranger to you.”
“To me too,” said Marcel. “Do you often go to La Chênaie?”
“Yes, I am too active to spend all my days at Villa Rose. My uncle is always afraid that I shall walk on his flower beds. He lives in a constant state of alarm, and sighs with relief when he sees the last of me. But the household at La Chênaie is so interesting.”
“Really?” said Marcel, trying rather ineffectively not to appear interested.
“It affords a thousand different ways of killing time—which is the enemy it is most in dread of—and in spite of it all it does sometimes experience what it is to have nothing to do. Madame Dulaurens bustles about, sends out her invitations, writes menus or accounts of her At Homes for the society papers. M. Dulaurens, the ceremonious and punctilious, arranges his library, which nobody is ever allowed to disturb, greets his wife’s guests, agrees with his wife’s slightest word and by his attitude of adoration constantly begs forgiveness of this thoroughly aristocratic person for his plebeian origin. Young Clément runs over dogs in his car. Happily he has done nothing worse until the present time.”
“And Alice?” Madame Guibert asked innocently.
The young man’s answer was full of tact.