"Who but you, Rose, would dream of these vulgar familiarities?" she remonstrated. "Amongst the French, they would be looked upon as the very essence of bad taste."
"Taste!" ejaculated Rose, contemptuously. "If you loved, you would know better. Wait until you do, Adeline, and then remember my words--and yours. It does not require much time for love to grow, if it will grow at all," she continued, in that half-abstracted manner which was now frequent with her--as if she were communing with herself, rather than talking to another.
"Probably not," remarked Adeline, with indifference. "But even you, Rose, susceptible as you are known to be, will scarcely admit that a few hours are sufficient to call it forth."
"Nor a twelvemonth either, situated as you and he are," replied Rose, vehemently. "The very fact of being expected and required to love in any given quarter, must act as a sure preventive."
M. de la Chasse drew up, and entered into conversation with them. He appeared a sensible, agreeable man, at home in all the polite and literary topics of the day. In his manner towards Adeline, though never losing the ceremonious politeness of a Frenchman, there was a degree of gallantry (I don't know any better word: the French would say empressement) not unpleasing to witness, and, Rose thought, he had a large share of vanity. But where you would see one of his nation superior to him, you might see ninety-nine inferior.
"It may be a happy marriage after all, Rose," observed Miss Carr, when they were once more alone.
"Possibly. If she can only induce him to let his hair grow, and to part with those yellow tails."
"Be serious if you can," reproved Mary Carr. "He seems to be in a fair way to love Adeline."
"He admires Adeline," dissented Rose; "is proud of her, and no doubt excessively gratified that so charming a girl should fall to his lot without any trouble on his part. But if you come to speak of love, it sets one wondering how much of that enters into the composition of a French husband."
No shadow, or doubt of the future, appeared that night to sit upon the spirit of Adeline de Castella. There was a radiant look in her countenance, rarely seen; hiding, for the moment, that touching expression of sorrow and sadness, so natural to it. As the betrothed of a few hours, in a few months to be a wife, she was the worshipped idol of those around her, and this called forth what latent vanity there was in her heart, and she was happy. She could only think it a great thing to be an engaged girl. All do. Why should Adeline de Castella be an exception?