"In you, mademoiselle—in you, Georgette," said I, in a scarcely audible voice.
"What—are you about to make love to me?"
"If I may be permitted, dear Georgette!"
"Oh, but you have been in love before?" said she, with a smile of drollery; "now say, have you not, for I know better."
"Georgette, people often have little fancies."
"And you have one for me—très bon!"
"Georgette!"
"Monsieur hangs his head with a very pleading air; you were in love, but you joined the army; alas! you see that ambition outlives love."
"Georgette—you are quite a philosopher!" said I, recovering, and taking up her tone, which was somewhat bantering, as if unwilling to believe me; but I could perceive that her poor little hands trembled very much as she plucked the lemon-water flowers, and her colour came and went with every pulsation.
"Georgette—dearest Georgette," I urged.