He shrugged and smiled, as one whose modesty forbade the mention of conquests.
“You do not belong here either, Mademoiselle,” he said. “You are not like these people. You have temperament, and a future—believe me. Why do you waste your time?”
“What do you mean, Vicomte?”
“Ah, it is not necessary to explain what I mean. It is that you do not choose to understand—you are far too clever. Why is it, then, that you bore yourself by regarding Institutions and listening to sermons in your jeunesse? It is all very well for Mademoiselle Susan, but you are not created for a religieuse. And again, it pleases you to spend hours with the stockbroker, who is as lacking in esprit as the bull of Joshua. He is no companion for you.”
“I am afraid,” she said reprovingly, “that you do not understand Mr. Spence.”
“Par exemple!” cried the Vicomte; “have I not seen hundreds' like him? Do not they come to Paris and live in the great hotels and demand cocktails and read the stock reports and send cablegrams all the day long? and go to the Folies Bergeres, and yawn? Nom de nom, of what does his conversation consist? Of the price of railroads;—is it not so? I, who speak to you, have talked to him. Does he know how to make love?”
“That accomplishment is not thought of very highly in America,” Honora replied.
“It is because you are a new country,” he declared.
“And you are mad over money. Money has taken the place of love.”
“Is money so despised in France?” she asked. “I have heard—that you married for it!”