“No, no, please.”
I felt opportunity slipping from me.
“Mademoiselle Duvernoy, it must seem strange to you, a French girl, brought up as you were, to realize this freedom of the sea?”
She turned to me in astonishment.
“What do you know about the way I have been brought up, Monsieur?” The tone was a return to the old formality. Yet her eyes, in the brief second they met mine, had a certain fugitive alarm.
“I have lived in France. I know the ways of your people, and I have been privileged to know many of your old families. I am certain we have acquaintances in common, of the Faubourg St. Germain; and I know how rigidly the daughters are brought up.”
She frowned and shook her head decisively.
“You are quite mistaken about me. I have come to America to earn my own living.”
The tone in which she said it was imperative, set and admitting no debate.
“If you are a Frenchwoman, coming to my country, in whatever way, I hope I may be honored by your friendship.”