e arose the words uttered by the Countess, after a while, in--

CONVERSATION III. Madame de Florac (at work). And so you like to quit
the world and to come to our triste old hotel. After to-day you will
find it still more melancholy, my poor child.

Ethel. And why?

Madame de F. Some one who has been here to egager our little meetings
will come no more.

Ethel. Is the Abbe de Florac going to quit Paris, madam?

Madame de F. It is not of him that I speak, thou knowest it very well,
my daughter. Thou hast seen my poor Clive twice here. He will come
once again, and then no more. My conscience reproaches me that I have
admitted him at all. But he is like a son to me, and was so confided to
me by his father. Five years ago, when we met, after an absence--of how
many years!--Colonel Newcome told me what hopes he had cherished for his
boy. You know well, my daughter, with whom those hopes were connected.
Then he wrote me that family arrangements rendered his plans
impossible--that the hand of Miss Newcome was promised elsewhere. When
I heard from my son Paul how these negotiations were broken, my heart
rejoiced, Ethel, for my friend's sake. I am an old woman now, who have
seen the world, and all sorts of men. Men more brilliant no doubt I have
known, but such a heart as his, such a faith as his, such a generosity
and simplicity as Thomas Newcome's--never!

Ethel (smiling). Indeed, dear lady, I think with you.

Madame de F. I understand thy smile, my daughter. I can say to thee,
that when we were children almost, I knew thy good uncle. My poor father
took the pride of his family into exile with him. Our poverty only made
his pride the greater. Even before the emigration a contract had been
passed between our family and the Count de Florac. I could not be
wanting to the word given by my father. For how many long years have
I kept it? But when I see a young girl who may be made the victim--the
subject of a marriage of convenience, as I was--my heart pities her. And
if I love her, as I love you, I tell her my thoughts. Better poverty,
Ethel: better a cell in a convent: than a union without love. Is it
written eternally that men are to make slaves of us? Here in France,
above all, our fathers sell us every day. And what a society ours is!
Thou wilt know this when thou art married. There are some laws so cruel
that nature revolts against theme, and breaks them--or we die in
keeping them. You smile. I have been nearly fifty