"Oh, Helen!" I cried in real distress, "and what did you say to him?"

"Why, what _could_ I say in that great parlor, with everybody
looking on? I just hushed him up as well as I could. There is the tall
English girl and that sharp-eyed Miss Donaldson, who are watching us the
whole time. It is real mean in them," excitedly. "And the count doesn't
mind letting everybody know how much he admires me. In fact, he is proud
of it, like one of the old knights, who used to wear their ladies'
favors as openly and proudly as they bore their knightly banners."

"This will never do, Helen. Don't you see that this boy is not like the
gay Frenchman that you danced with last winter? René Vergniaud was a man
of the world: he could take care of himself. But this beautiful boy,
with his intensity of feeling, his ideal passionate love--You must not
play with him," I exclaimed vehemently.

"I am not playing with him: I never do anything to make him like me. He
comes and talks to me, and I just make myself as agreeable to him as I
can, that is all."

That is all, is it, you little mischief? thought I. As if that were not
the very refinement of coquetry! But I prudently refrained from saying
it, for a tempest of hot tears began to fall, and she sobbed, "Oh,
Madame Fleming, I did not think I was going to forfeit your good
opinion. What can I do? I can't help his liking me. I like him too, and
that makes me feel so badly."

"Do you like him better than Mr. Denham?"