“What shall I talk about?”
“Anything. Nothing. Tell us a story,” she decided.
“I don’t know any stories.”
“Then the least you can do is to invent one,” was her plausible retort.
“What sort of a story would you like?”
“There’s only one sort of story a woman ever sincerely likes—especially on a hot summer’s afternoon, in the country,” she affirmed.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly invent a love-story,” he disclaimed.
“Then tell us a true one. You needn’t be afraid of shocking Madame Dornaye. She’s a realist herself.”
“Jeanne ma fille!” murmured Madame Dornaye, reprovingly.
“The only true love-story I could tell has a somewhat singular defect,” said he. “There’s no heroine.”