"Monsieur?"
"I was about to say something——"
"What?"
"That I tenderly love you."
"Love me!" she reiterated in a whisper; "ah, do not say so—at least so earnestly.
"Why?"
"I—I know not—it is no use loving me, monsieur; but we see so much of each other—that—and is it not a strange chance which throws us so frequently together?"
"Do not term it chance, Georgette."
"What then?" she asked, with a smile, as she regained courage.
"Now, monsieur, what do you mean?"