“Pierrette,” she said, “you are no longer a child; you are nearly fifteen, and it is not at all surprising that you should have a lover.”
“But, cousin,” said Pierrette, raising her eyes with angelic sweetness to the cold, sour face of her cousin, “What is a lover?”
It would have been impossible for Sylvie to define a lover with truth and decency to the girl’s mind. Instead of seeing in that question the proof of adorable innocence, she considered it a piece of insincerity.
“A lover, Pierrette, is a man who loves us and wishes to marry us.”
“Ah,” said Pierrette, “when that happens in Brittany we call the young man a suitor.”
“Well, remember that in owning your feelings for a man you do no wrong, my dear. The wrong is in hiding them. Have you pleased some of the men who visit here?”
“I don’t think so, cousin.”
“Do you love any of them?”
“No.”
“Certain?”