“But I should not!” she declared, smilingly. “I have my ideals, if you please, Monsieur. Marriage should mean love. It is only matrimony for which liking is the foundation. I do not approve of matrimony.”
“Pardon; that is the expression of the romance lover––the school girl. But that I know you have lived the life of a nun I should fear some one had been before me, some one who realized those ideals of yours, and that instead of studying the philosophies of life, you have been a student of the philosophy of love.”
He spoke lightly––half laughingly, but the flush of pink suffusing her throat and brow checked his smile. He could only stare.
She arose hastily and walked the length of the room. When she turned the color was all gone, but her eyes were softly shining.
“All philosophy falls dead when the heart speaks,” she said, as she resumed her chair; “and now, Monsieur Loris, I mean to make you my father confessor, for I know no better way of ending these periodical proposals of yours, and at the same time confession might––well––it might not be without a certain benefit to myself.” He perceived that while she had assumed an air of raillery, there was some substance back of the mocking shadow.
“I shall feel honored by your confidence, Marquise,” he was earnest enough in that.
“And when you realize that there is––some one else––will you then resume your former role of friend?”
“I shall try. Who is the man?”
She met his earnest gaze with a demure smile, “I do not know, Monsieur.”