"You find me unconventional," cried Bidiane, in alarm. "Mrs. Nimmo says I will never get over it. I do not know what I shall do,—but here, at least, on the Bay, I thought it would not so much matter. Really, it was a consolation in leaving Paris."
"Mademoiselle, it is not that," he said, hesitatingly. "I assure you, the question has been asked before, with not so much delicacy—But with whom should I fall in love?"
"With any one. It must be a horrible sensation. I have never felt it, but I cry very often over tales of lovers. Possibly you are like Madame de Forêt, you do not care to marry."
"Perhaps I am waiting until she does, mademoiselle."
"I suppose you could not tell me," she said, in the dainty, coaxing tones of a child, "what it is that separates your cousin from Mr. Nimmo?"
"No, mademoiselle, I regret to say that I cannot."
"Is it something she can ever get over?"
"Possibly."
"You don't want to be teased about it. I will talk of something else; people don't marry very often after they are thirty. That is the dividing line."