"Oh! then mine is better?"

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I did not say that. Yours is a sweet voice,
but I fancy a little higher."

"A little shriller, you would say," answered the De la Valliere, I
fancied a good deal vexed.

"No, not shriller: your voice is not shrill, it is beautifully sweet;
but not so pathetically sweet as hers."

"That is prejudice, Monsieur; it is not true."

I bowed; I could not contradict a lady.

"I see, Monsieur, you laugh at me; you think me vain, because I claim in
some points to be equal to the Countess de St. Alyre. I challenge you to
say, my hand, at least, is less beautiful than hers." As she thus spoke
she drew her glove off, and extended her hand, back upward, in the
moonlight.

The lady seemed really nettled. It was undignified and irritating; for
in this uninteresting competition the precious moments were flying, and
my interview leading apparently to nothing.

"You will admit, then, that my hand is as beautiful as hers?"

"I cannot admit it. Mademoiselle," said I, with the honesty of
irritation. "I will not enter into comparisons, but the Countess de St.