"Because he looks at you in that way, mamma, and squeezes your
hand."

"Nonsense, child," said Mrs. Thompson; "hold your tongue. I don't
know what can have put such stuff into your head."

"But he does, mamma," said Mimmy, who rarely allowed her mother to
put her down.

Mrs. Thompson made no further answer, but again sat with her head
resting on her hand. She also, if the truth must be told, was
thinking of M. Lacordaire and his fondness for herself. He had
squeezed her hand and he had looked into her face. However much it
may have been nonsense on Mimmy's part to talk of such things, they
had not the less absolutely occurred. Was it really the fact that
M. Lacordaire was in love with her?

And if so, what return should she, or could she make to such a
passion? He had looked at her yesterday, and squeezed her hand to-
day. Might it not be probable that he would advance a step further
to-morrow? If so, what answer would she be prepared to make to him?

She did not think--so she said to herself--that she had any
particular objection to marrying again. Thompson had been dead now
for four years, and neither his friends, nor her friends, nor the
world could say she was wrong on that score. And as to marrying a
Frenchman, she could not say she felt within herself any absolute
repugnance to doing that. Of her own country, speaking of England
as such, she, in truth, knew but little--and perhaps cared less.