Mrs. Mussard sat very upright. She looked at Valcourt; the hand with which she had smoothed his hair remained suspended in mid-air until she recollected it and laid it over its companion in her lap.
“Most young fellows beginning life go to other men’s wives for advice,” said Valcourt. “Why shouldn’t I go to my own?”
Mrs. Mussard’s chiseled scarlet lips moved as though she had echoed, “Why not?”
“They—the chaps I’m talking of—are wild about ’em—the other men’s wives. Yet nearly all of the women are old enough to be their mothers.”
“Their grandmothers, sometimes,” said Mrs. Mussard unkindly.
“Then why shouldn’t I marry a woman who’s only old enough to be my aunt—a young aunt! I’d make a Marchioness of her, don’t you know! and she’d make—she could make anything she liked of me!” said Valcourt, turning his cherub smile and tourmaline eyes suddenly on Mrs. Mussard. “You could!” The lovely widow started violently, and flushed from the string of pearls encircling her pretty throat to the little gold hair-waves that crisped at her blue-veined temples. “You know you could!” murmured Valcourt. The strong young arm in the well-cut sleeve intercepted the retreating movement that would have placed the lovely widow in the uttermost corner of the sofa. The remonstrance upon Vivienne’s lips was stifled by a kiss, given with eloquence and decision, though the lips that administered it were soft, and unshaded by even the rudiments of a mustache. “I’m seventeen the end of this term, and five feet nine in my socks,” said Valcourt, a little breathlessly, for the kiss had not been one-sided; “and—and you’re simply awfully pretty. Marry me—I shall be of age before you know it—and——”
“You dreadfully presuming boy!” There were tears in the lovely eyes of the late Mr. Mussard’s lovely widow; an unwonted throbbing in the region of her bodice imparted a tremor to her voice that added to its charm. “I shall write to your mother!”
“Do!” said Valcourt, with his angelic smile. “She’ll be awfully pleased! I wonder the idea didn’t occur to her instead of to me, for she’s awfully clever, and I’m rather an ass.... Five o’clock!” he exclaimed, as the delicate chime of a Pompadour clock upon the mantelshelf announced the hour.
“And you have missed the matinée!” said Mrs. Mussard.
“I preferred this!” said Valcourt, getting up. She had no idea of his being taller than herself until she found the tourmaline eyes looking down into hers. “Good-bye, and thank you, Mrs. Mussard,” said the boyish, ringing voice. “I’ve had an awfully pleasant day.”