"Very well then--suppose our arbour here to be your great sensible
country. I offer you my hand a l'Americaine. It will make me intensely
happy to feel you accept it."

Whether Euphemia's acceptance was in the American manner is more than I
can say; I incline to think that for fluttering grateful trustful
softly-amazed young hearts there is only one manner all over the world.

That evening, in the massive turret chamber it was her happiness to
inhabit, she wrote a dutiful letter to her mamma, and had just sealed it
when she was sent for by Madame de Mauves. She found this ancient lady
seated in her boudoir in a lavender satin gown and with her candles all
lighted as for the keeping of some fete. "Are you very happy?" the old
woman demanded, making Euphemia sit down before her.

"I'm almost afraid to say so, lest I should wake myself up."

"May you never wake up, belle enfant," Madame de Mauves grandly
returned. "This is the first marriage ever made in our family in this
way--by a Comte de Mauves proposing to a young girl in an arbour like
Jeannot and Jeannette. It has not been our way of doing things, and
people may say it wants frankness. My grandson tells me he regards it--
for the conditions--as the perfection of good taste. Very well. I'm a
very old woman, and if your differences should ever be as marked as your
agreements I shouldn't care to see them. But I should be sorry to die
and think you were going to be unhappy. You can't be, my dear, beyond a
certain point; because, though in this world the Lord sometimes makes
light of our expectations he never altogether ignores our deserts. But
you're very young and innocent and easy to dazzle. There never was a man