"I often think of that," she returned. "I am afraid all the good
part of me loves you, and all the bad loves the counts and dukes
and earls, you know. And the good is almost drowned in all the
rest, like vegetables in vegetable soup."

She excelled in giving such little dampers to sentiment, and
laughed heartily at Frank's discomfiture.

"You can be awfully cruel," he said. "I wonder you can be so
beautiful when you can think such things and say them. You treat
hearts like toys and laugh when you break them."

"Well, there's one thing, Frank," she said seriously. "I have
never pretended to you or tried to appear better than I am; and
you are the only man I can say that to and not lie!"

IV

The comte de Souvary, towards whom Florence betrayed an
inclination that seemed at times to deserve a warmer word, was a
French gentleman nearing forty. He was a man of distinguished
appearance, with all the gaiety, grace, and charm that, in spite
our popular impression to the contrary, are not seldom found
amongst the nobles of his country. His undoubted wealth and
position redeemed his suit from any appearance of being inspired
by a mercenary motive. Indeed, he was accustomed himself to be
pursued, and Florence and he recognised in each other a fellowship
of persecution.

"We are ze Pale Faces," he would say, "and ze ozzers zey are