"What does this mean?" queried my young partner. "Is he her husband? I
believe I am dreaming. Where am I?"

"You!" I retorted, "you, madame, who are easily excited, and who,
understanding so well the most imperceptible emotions, are able to
cultivate in a man's heart the most delicate of sentiments, without
crushing it, without shattering it at the very outset, you who have
compassion for the tortures of the heart, and who, with the wit of the
Parisian, combine a passionate temperament worthy of Spain or
Italy----"

She realized that my words were heavily charged with bitter irony;
and, thereupon, without seeming to notice it, she interrupted me to
say:

"Oh! you describe me to suit your own taste. A strange kind of
tyranny! You wish me not to be _myself_!"

"Oh! I wish nothing," I cried, alarmed by the severity of her manner.
"At all events, it is true, is it not, that you like to hear stories
of the fierce passions, kindled in our heart by the enchanting women
of the South?"

"Yes. And then?"

"Why, I will come to your house about nine o'clock to-morrow evening,
and elucidate this mystery for you."

"No," she replied, with a pout; "I wish it done now."