a stocking, while my own books and geographical notes, in a state
of dustlessness they had never known actually, formed a brown bower
around her. Somewhere near, in an old secretary or in a grave, was
buried the ideal of an earlier, haughtier love; wrapped up in a stolen
ribbon or pressed in a book.

She continued simply, "I am very much alone myself. Without the visits
of Monsieur Fortnoye I should be dead of ennui. I am so glad to find
you know him, monsieur!"

[Illustration: SELF-CONTROL.]

This jarred upon me more than I can say. I assumed, as one can at
my age, an air of parental benevolence, in which I administered my
dissatisfaction: "Fortnoye is a roysterer, a squanderer, a wanderer
and a _pètroleur_. At your age, my child, you are really imprudent."

"He is a little wild, but he is young himself. And so good, so
generous, so kind! I owe him everything."

"On what conditions?" said I, more severely perhaps than I meant.
"Your relations, my daughter, are not very clear. Is he then your
_verlobter_?"

She looked at me with an expression of stupefaction, then buried her
face in her hands: "He my intended! Has he ever dreamed of such a
thing? Am I not a poor flower-girl?"

And she was sobbing through her fingers.