"But if he loves you, and it comes to nothing in the end, he will be miserable."
"Of course he will break his heart. I should be disappointed if he didn't."
"Do try to get a clear idea of the state of your own mind," I said, "for to me it really seems as chaotic as a rag-bag."
"It is something in this fashion. He thinks far more of me than I find it convenient to be, while I am more at ease with you, you old cross-patch, you who know me to be coquettish and ignorant and fickle."
"You love M. Isidore far more than you think or will avow."
"No. I danced with a young officer the other night whom I love a thousand times more than he. Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. Vive les joies et les plaisirs!"
It was as English teacher that I was engaged at Madame Beck's school, but the annual fête brought me into prominence in another capacity. The programme included a dramatic performance, with pupils and teachers for actors, and this was given under the superintendence of M. Paul Emanuel. I was dressed a couple of hours before anyone else, and reading in my classroom, the door was flung open, and in came M. Paul with a burst of execrable jargon: "Mees, play you must; I am planted here."
"What can I do for you?" I inquired.
"Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make the prude. Let us thrust to the wall all reluctance."
What did the little man mean?