ves?"

"You express yourself so disagreeably," said she, "one hardly knows how
to answer; what I mean to say is, that I occasionally allow Isidore the
pleasure and honour of expressing his homage by the offer of a trifle."

"It comes to the same thing.... Now, Ginevra, to speak the plain truth,
I don't very well understand these matters; but I believe you are doing
very wrong--seriously wrong. Perhaps, however, you now feel certain
that you will be able to marry M. Isidore; your parents and uncle have
given their consent, and, for your part, you love him entirely?"

"Mais pas du tout!" (she always had recourse to French when about to
say something specially heartless and perverse). "Je suis sa reine,
mais il n'est pas mon roi."

"Excuse me, I must believe this language is mere nonsense and coquetry.
There is nothing great about you, yet you are above profiting by the
good nature and purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference.
You love M. Isidore far more than you think, or will avow."

"No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love a
thousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold to
Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire
him; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is...."

And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her.

"Yes!" I said, "try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To
me it seems in a great mess--chaotic as a rag-bag."

"It is something in this fashion," she cried out ere long: "the man is
too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I
find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all
sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor
intend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rather trying to
justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to
talk sense,--for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my
ease with you, old lady--you, you dear crosspatch--who take me at my
lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, and
fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things you and
I have agreed to be a part of my character."

"This is all very well," I said, making a strenuous effort to preserve
that gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by this
whimsical candour, "but it does not alter that wretched business of the
presents. Pack them up,