"Ah, but, assuredly, Messire Florian, you do not argue with my pets
quite seriously! Old people always have some such queer notions. Of
course love all depends upon what sort of person you are. Now, as I see
it, Mama and Grandmama are not the sort of persons who have real
love-affairs. Devoted as I am to both of them, I cannot but perceive they
are lacking in real depth of sentiment. They simply do not understand or
care about such matters. They are fine, straightforward, practical
persons, poor dears, and always have been, of course, for in things like
that one does not change, as I have often noticed. And Father, and
Grandfather Perion, too, as I remember him, was kind-hearted and
admirable and all that, but nobody could ever have expected him to be a
satisfactory lover. Why, he was bald as an egg, the poor pet!"

And Sylvie laughed again at the preposterous notions of old people. She
flashed an especial smile at Florian. Her hand went out as though to
touch him, in an unforgotten gesture. "Old people do not understand,"
said Sylvie de Nointel, in tones which took this handsome young fellow
ineffably into confidence.

"Mademoiselle," said Florian, with a sigh that was part relief and all
approval, "it is you who speak the truth, and your elders have fallen
victims to the cynicism of a crassly material age. Love is immortal when
it is really love and when one is the right sort of person. There is the
love--known to how few, alas! and a passion of which I regret to find
your mother incapable--that endures unchanged until the end of life."

"I am so glad you think so, Messire Florian," she answered demurely.

"And do you not think so, mademoiselle?"