"The Vicomte swore very hard when you went out," my father went on.
Mlle. de Bergerac laid aside her book. "Dear me!" she said, "if he was going to swear, it's very well I went."
"Are you afraid of the Vicomte?" said my mother. "You're twenty-two years old. You're not a little girl."
"Is she twenty-two?" cried my father. "I told him she was twenty-one."
"Frankly, brother," said Mlle. de Bergerac, "what does he want? Does he want to marry me?"
My father stared a moment. "Pardieu!" he cried.
"She looks as if she didn't believe it," said my mother. "Pray, did you ever ask him?"
"No, madam; did you? You are very kind." Mlle. de Bergerac was excited; her cheeks flushed.
"In the course of time," said my father, gravely, "the Vicomte proposes to demand your hand."
"What is he waiting for?" asked Mlle. de Bergerac, simply.