"What the world might say of all this."
"All what—I do not comprehend, monsieur," said she, while her cheek reddened, and her bosom heaved. "What has the odious world to do with our little supper? But talk not to me of the world," she added bitterly, while her fine eyes flashed with sudden fire; "'tis not the world I dreamed it to be when I viewed it only through the iron grilles, and gay flower garden of the old convent in which I was reared at Paris. I have lived to see its folly, its hollowness, its bitterness and falsehood. I am without friends, country, prospects—hope! Love may lighten—but death alone could release me from it. Do you understand this?" she asked almost fiercely.
"No, madame."
"What a child it is!" she exclaimed, pouting again, and then added in a subdued voice; "you have not yet seen your nearest and dearest perish in the shambles of the Place de la Grève, or amid the horrors of the Vendean war—or the greater atrocities of these Indian isles, but let me not think of such things. Fill me a glass of vidonia—thank you. Some time I shall tell you my story; meantime, allow me to assist you to more wine; there is a song which says—
Valour the stronger grows,
The stronger liquor we are drinking;
And how can we feel our woes,
When we've lost the trouble of thinking?
She sang this with charming naïveté and added, "Monsieur will perceive that I have not lived in barracks without learning something. Do allow me to assist you to more fruit."
"These are wonderful oranges."
"They are not oranges," said she, while her naturally coquettish smile returned to her dark eye, and ruddy lip; "do you not perceive that they are longer and larger than the largest orange, and have the flavor of the shaddock?"
"True."
"I gathered them from a tree in the garden."