“Your mother is a wise woman,” said Jean.
“Everybody is so in Italy. Poetry is only a matter of language with them.”
Suddenly, with that naturalness which was her greatest charm and which led her into the most unexpected outbursts, she began to cry. And, as he stood bewildered and not knowing how to show his concern, she asked him:
“Why don’t you marry me?”
Confused as he was, he answered, nevertheless, quickly enough.
“I could not take you with me to Africa.”
“You could go in for business. You would make a lot of money. M. Landeau would help you.” At the thought of the curious rôle that she was giving M. Landeau she laughed heartily which completely won the young man. As they threaded the avenue of plane-trees she took advantage of the deep shadow of a tree to offer her cheek.
“Kiss me to console me!”
Jean was still thrilling at the contact with the fresh young cheek when Isabelle renewed her attack.
“What a pity!” she said. “Why aren’t you a millionaire?”