"On another arm?—monsieur, I do not understand."
"Are you so artless as not to perceive that the whiteness of your arm darkens even these snowy pearls?" whispered Haystone, impressively.
Poor Julie sighed, and played the deuce with her music, for Rowland Haystone was a handsome rogue, and pleased her eye.
On another occasion I heard Claire say to him,—
"It is no use saying that you love me, monsieur, for I don't believe in you; we quite understood each other."
"To know you, dear Claire, and not love you, would be——"
"What—something very tremendous, no doubt?"
"A reproach to any man."
"Of course!" said she, drooping her eyelashes to hide a twinkle of drollery.
"But less so, however, to one of the Twenty-First."