"Guess."
Agapit studied his face. "You are twenty-six."
"No."
"I daresay we are both younger than Rose," said Agapit, ingenuously, "and she has less sense than either."
"Did your ancestors come from the south of France?" asked Vesper, abruptly.
"Not the LeNoirs; but my mother's family was from Provence. Why do you ask?"
"You are like a Frenchman of the south."
"I know that I am impetuous," pursued Agapit. "Rose says that I resemble the tea-kettle. I boil and bubble all the time that I am not asleep, and"—uneasily—"she also says that I speak too hastily of women; that I do not esteem them as clever as they are. What do you think?"
Vesper laughed quickly. "Southerners all have a slight contempt for women. However, they are frank about it. Is there one thought agitating your bosom that you do not express?"
"No; most unfortunately. It chagrins me that I speak everything. I feel, and often speak before I feel, but what can one do? It is my nature. Rose also follows her nature. She is beautiful, but she studies nothing, absolutely nothing, but the science of cooking."