"But I do not care to read again that which I have already read. I have learned all the lessons that particular ancient history has to teach." Her tone and expression were not without a point of bitterness. "I want to go forward, to learn a new science, rather than to repeat discredited fables."
Anastasia sighed, raising her shoulders, smiling keenly and sadly.
"Ah! you are still a baby," she said; "very much a baby, stretching out soft, eager fingers toward any and every untried thing which sparkles, or jiggets, or rattles. Poor enough stuff, my dear, for the most part, when you do contrive to grasp it! Not new at all, either, save for the high-sounding modern names with which it is labeled—only old clothes made over to ape new fashions! Believe me, the love of a clever and handsome young man is a thousand times more satisfying, more entertaining, than any such sartorial reconstructions from the world-old rag-bag of social experiment. Ah! vastly more entertaining," she added, placing her fan against her lips, and looking at the younger woman over the top of it with meaning.
"M. Byewater informs me that M. René Dax is really, really ill," Gabrielle remarked rather hastily, her eyes turned upon the roses.
"Umph—and pray what, my dear, has that precious piece of information to do with it?"
"He may perhaps even die."
"I, for one, should survive his loss with conspicuous resignation and fortitude."
"But for the past week he has written to me almost daily."
"An impertinence which makes me the more resigned to his speedy demise."
"Yes—piteous, eloquent little letters, telling me how he suffers. And I have not answered."