"Let us be honest. Even heroines have to eat and drink and wash their faces. It is monstrous nonsense, all this romance and all this glorifying of women. A boy adores indiscriminately, a man chooses the least offensive necessity. That is the difference between a boy's love and a man's."
As they descended the oak stairway, François came in from the porch with a horse following at the end of a halter. The beast followed him quietly enough, though its hoofs made a rare racket on the oak floor-boards of the hall. The unexpectedness of it made Nance falter.
"Nothing but a horse, ma chère."
"It startled me."
"You tremble. You are not made to be an adventurous heroine, to do wonderful and absurd things, climb down ropes, and hold villains at the point of a pistol. We are asking our horses to dine with us, that is all. Now, tell me frankly, how do you like adventure?"
"I don't like it at all."
"No, of course not. It is abominably uncomfortable, but people will have it that it is fine and exciting—to read about."
The man Jean waited on them at table, while François went in and out of the big hall bringing the horses in from the stable and fastening them to the staples that had been driven into the wainscoting. Nance's place was at the lower end of the oak table, where the light from the window fell upon her face. De Rothan sat well back in his chair, watching her and keeping up a whimsical monologue.
"Why the old chivalry folk glorified you women, Nance, I do not know. I have had experience, and I have never come across a woman who was not a fool. Wonderful creatures, eh—all cream and roses and starry eyes and tenderness and purity! Just because of something that is called a petticoat. And Mr. Benham thinks you the most wonderful young woman in the whole world! Now, I do not. And since a man cannot get on without a woman, he makes the best of a bad bargain."
She felt that he was laughing at her, and yet there was something vindictive and passionate behind it.