"Or the baroness," I added, laughing.
"Well," said she, with a pretty shrug, "is there not a man for every woman? The baroness she thinks she is irresistible. She has money. She would like to buy you for a plaything—to marry you. But I say beware. She is more terrible than the keeper of the Bastile. And you—you are too young!"
"My dear girl," said I, in a voice of pleading, "it is terrible. Save me! Save me, I pray you!"
"Pooh! I do not care!"—with a gesture of indifference, "I am trying to save myself, that is all."
"From what?"
"Another relative. Parbleu! I have enough." She stamped her foot impatiently as she spoke. "I should be very terrible to you. I should say the meanest things. I should call you grandpapa and give you a new cane every Christmas."
"And if you gave me also a smile, I should be content."
More than once I was near declaring myself that day, but I had a mighty fear she was play-
