“Well, if I didn’t it wouldn’t be much loss!” cried this young lady.
“Allons, en marche!” trumpeted M. Pigeonneau, all gallant urbanity and undiscouraged by her impertinence. “Let us make together the tour of the garden.” And he attached himself to Miss Ruck with a respectful elderly grace which treated her own lack even of the juvenile form of that attraction as some flower of alien modesty, and was ever sublimely conscious of a mission to place modesty at its ease. This ill-assorted couple walked in front, while Aurora Church and I strolled along together.
“I’m sure this is more improper,” said my companion; “this is delightfully improper. I don’t say that as a compliment to you,” she added. “I’d say it to any clinging man, no matter how stupid.”
“Oh I’m clinging enough,” I answered; “but I’m as stupid as you could wish, and this doesn’t seem to me wrong.”
“Not for you, no; only for me. There’s nothing that a man can do that’s wrong, is there? En morale, you know, I mean. Ah, yes, he can kill and steal; but I think there’s nothing else, is there?”
“Well, it’s a nice question. One doesn’t know how those things are taken till after one has done them. Then one’s enlightened.”
“And you mean you’ve never been enlightened? You make yourself out very good.”
“That’s better than making one’s self out very bad, as you do.”
“Ah,” she explained, “you don’t know the consequences of a false position.”
I was amused at her great formula. “What do you mean by yours being one?”