“I suppose you have money of your own, then?” inquired the relentless Pauline.
“Mademoiselle, I have enough,” said Jean, trembling with rage.
“All the same,” Pauline went on, “I think it’s real mean of them not to keep you on here. Why, their house is as big as an hotel. Doesn’t it make you mad?”
“If you do not mind, mademoiselle, I should prefer not to discuss my relations in a language that they do not understand,” said Jean, biting his lip.
Pauline stared at him.
“Goodness me!” she exclaimed. “You wouldn’t discuss them in a language they could, I suppose?”
Jean hesitated.
“In France,” he said gently, “it is not our custom to discuss our relations at all.” And this time Pauline did understand. She did not blush, nor did she show any sign of displeasure. She measured Jean with a calculating eye; he was a negligible quantity, poor Jean—he was not even good looking; his face was too thin and too pallid, his features too angular, only his clear-cut, sensitive mouth and a certain shining eagerness in his vivid dark eyes held the observer’s attention, but they did not hold Pauline’s.
“In America,” she said, with calm distinctness, “we discuss what we choose, and I guess I intend to allow myself the very same licence over here!” And she turned a beautiful white shoulder upon Jean and devoted the rest of dinner to her other neighbour.
It was the second time that evening in which Jean discovered that if you have no material value you are not supposed to claim the right of a spiritual one.