"Try me," said John, as the oldest of the company addressed, while the girls laughed.
"I grow so impatient with it," went on the old lady, pursuing aloud her train of thought. "It seems as if the whole body of French fiction writers was in a conspiracy against one's illusions. They are clever enough to see the value of them, you would suppose, yet almost every book you take up teaches that honor is a thing of the external life, and not a part of the very essence of one's being."
"Do you call that an illusion?" asked Sydney.
"I call it a truth, and belief in it an article of faith," said Mrs. Carroll, stoutly, "but these people"—she tapped the book she had laid down—"posit it as an illusion, and then demolish it by all sorts of examples that could occur nowhere outside of Gaul!"
"Do you forget the books that are 'crowned'?" asked John.
"When a Frenchman attempts to be spiritual, it is an unfortunate fact that he becomes insipid," asserted Mrs. Carroll, with a finality that made them laugh again.
"You keep to this day your illusions!" said Hilda, softly admiring.
"I am most glad to say that I do. They are worn, but serviceable still," replied Mrs. Carroll, smiling. "Even at my age, I still believe that most husbands cherish their wives, and that most wives love their husbands, and wear their names worthily."
"Checkmate."
"Oh, Mr. Vendell!"