"I _was_ in a most profound reverie," she replied, turning quickly
round; "and you have destroyed as fair a vision, as ever dawned on the
waking fancy."

"Was your vision of the past or future?" asked De Valette.

"Only of the past; I care not for the future, which is too uncertain to
be trusted, and which may have nothing but misfortunes in reserve for
me."

"You are in a pensive mood, just now," said De Valette; "when I last saw
you, I could scarce have believed a cloud would ever cross the sunshine
of your face."

"Experience might have rendered you more discerning," she answered, with
a smile; "but you, who love variety so well, should not complain of the
changes of my mood."

"Change, as often as you will," said De Valette; "and, in every
variation, you cannot fail to please."

"And you," said Luciè, "cannot fail of seeming very foolish, till you
leave off this annoying habit of turning every word into a
compliment:--nay, do not look displeased," she added, gaily; "you know
that you deserve reproof, occasionally, and there is no one who will
administer it to you, but myself."

"But what _you_ define a compliment," said Stanhope, "would probably
appear, to any other person, the simple language of sincerity."