"I say, monsieur, do you know I'm mad over your plays? If I should go mad over you too——"
"There's no danger of that."
"What's that? there's no danger? What makes you say: 'There's no danger'? Perhaps you don't know that I take fire very quickly, I do!"
That young woman was decidedly original. She said whatever came into her head, without beating about the bush. I liked that frankness, in which there was something like artlessness. Mademoiselle Rosette was neither stupid, nor pretentious, nor prudish. She was a perfect little phœnix, was that grisette. I began by kissing her; she defended herself feebly, or, rather, she allowed herself to be kissed without too much fuss; but when I attempted to go further, she defended herself very stoutly, crying:
"I said: 'Not to-day!'—So, no nonsense; it's a waste of time!"
"Well, when, then?"
"Oh! we'll see; we've got time enough. Do you like me?"
"What a question! Many other men must like you, for you know well enough that you're as pretty as a peach."
"Oh, yes! I know that; people tell me so every day."
"Lovers?"