new faculties and charms. Doubtless
you remember she was gifted, but who would have thought she could have
blossomed so! She was all light and softness and air; she is now all
fire and skill as well. Matchless! matchless! Every day sees her with
some new capacity, some fresh and delicate aplomb. She has set the town
admiring, and jealous mothers prophesy trist ending for her. Her swift
mastery of the social arts is weird, they say. La! la! The social
arts! A good brain, a gift of penetration, a manner--which is a grand
necessity, and it must be with birth--no heart to speak of, and the rest
is easy. No heart--there is the thing; with a good brain and senses all
warm with life--to feel, but never to have the arrow strike home. You
must never think to love and be loved, and be wise too. The emotions
blind the judgment. Be heartless, be perfect with heavenly artifice,
and, if you are a woman, have no vitriol on your tongue--and you may
rule at Versailles or Quebec. But with this difference: in Quebec you
may be virtuous; at Versailles you must not. It is a pity that you may
not meet Mademoiselle Duvarney. She would astound you. She was a simple
ballad a year ago; to-morrow she may be an epic."

He nodded at me reflectively, and went on:

"'Mademoiselle,' said the Chevalier de la Darante to her at dinner,
some weeks ago, 'if I were young, I should adore you.' 'Monsieur,' she
answered, 'you use that "if" to shirk the responsibility.' That put him
on his mettle. 'Then, by the gods, I adore you now,' he answered. 'If I
were young, I should blush to hear you say so,' was her reply. 'I empty
out my heart, and away trips the disdainful nymph with a laugh,' he
rejoined gaily, the rusty old courtier; 'there's nothing left but to
fall upon my sword!' 'Disdainful nymphs are the better scabbards for
distinguished swords,' she said, with charming courtesy. Then, laughing
softly, 'There is an Egyptian proverb which runs thus: "If thou, Dol,
son of Hoshti, hast emptied out thy heart, and it bring no fruit
in exchange, curse not thy gods and die, but build a pyramid in the
vineyard where thy love was spent, and write upon it, Pride hath no
conqueror."' It is a mind for a palace, is it not?"

I could see in the mirror facing him the provoking devilry of his eyes.
I knew that he was trying how much he could stir me. He guessed my love
for her, but I could see he was sure that she no longer--if she ever
had--thought of me. Besides, with a