lder you will
know that it is the man who can talk love easily who can make the most
women think they love him." Pierre Delarue stopped to drink the last
of his tea, and Marguerite blushed consciously, remembering the scene
through which she had just passed. She rose to put his cup on the
table, and was glad that her face was turned away from him when next
he spoke:

"When a man tells a woman that he loves her," Delarue went on, "and it
rolls easily off his tongue, she should never believe a word that he
says. If a man really loves a woman, those three little words, 'I love
you,' are the hardest ones in the whole world for him to say. Most
women do not know that when they hear their first proposals, but they
ought to know it, especially in this country, where they make so much
of love. But, after all, I do not know that it makes so much
difference, because all women want to hear no end of love talked to
them, and it is only the man who does not feel it very deeply who can
talk enough about it to satisfy them. A woman is bound to be
disappointed, whichever way she marries, for she is sure to find out
after a while that the flow of words is empty, and the love without
the words never satisfies. After all, it is better for a woman to
think of other things than love when she marries. They manage these
things better in France. Don't you think so, my daughter?"

There was a deep thrill of passionate protest in her voice as she
answered, "No, father, I certainly do not."

He laughed indulgently and patted her hand as he said: "Ah, you are a
little American!" Then he added, more seriously: "I suppose you, too,
will soon be thinking of love and marriage."

She threw her arms around his neck and there was a sob in her voice as
she exclaimed: "Father, I shall never marry!"

He smoothed her brown hair and laid his hand on her shoulder saying,
"Ah, that means you will surely be married within a year!"

She shook her head. "No, I mean it, father! I shall never marry!"

"My dear, I should be sorry if you did not," he answered with dignity,
and with a strong note of disapproval in his voice. "For what is a
woman who does not marry and bear children? Nothing! She is a rose
bush that never flowers, a grape vine that never fruits. She is
useless, a weed that cumbers the earth. No, my daughter, you must
marry, or displease your father very much."

Marguerite lay awake long that night, trying to decide what she ought
to do. Her fa