“The French—oh, yes,” said Freda, gravely, “you mean having wives and mistresses too. I’ve often wondered if the French couldn’t sue us for libel for the things provincial Americans think about them.”
He flushed. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Gracious, no.” But he knew from her laugh that she was. “Why should I make fun of you?”
She was enjoying herself. She felt so secure, so strong. It was fun to bait this temperish young man, make him scuttle about for phrases which had no effect on her at all.
“Anyway you know how I feel.” He pushed aside the glasses and plates between them and bent himself over the tiny table towards her. She sat back in her chair promptly.
“You know how I feel,” he persisted, “I never cared for a girl as I’ve cared for you.”
“Then,” said Freda, with an air of great simplicity, “why not ask me to marry you?”
He threw out his hands in a theatrical gesture of despondency.
“I’m tied hand and foot. This marriage of mine has been cooked up by our families. It’s all arranged for us.”
“I know,” said Freda wisely, “as in France.”