her fingers, which she could do with masculine effect.
And love was his theme, his inspiration, his reason; and love was her only dower! But it was like talking of God to an unbeliever.
"Be reasonable; listen to me! On my word of honor, as a woman who was not born yesterday, and who has not lived with her eyes shut, this crisis is temporary, momentary. She is not the only young woman in the world! enfin, I guarantee," raising her voice and her finger impressively,—"I guarantee that you will meet at least, at least, one woman a year during the next ten years of your life whom you will love enough to make your wife. Ten women! Ten wives! Mon Dieu! and I am putting it low. No! I can never consent."
The rebellious retorts, the marplot of their domestic intercourse, which always rose in his heart at the sound of her voice, crowded to his tongue now, but he had no temper to utter them.
"Love, my dear, it passes like everything,—only a little quicker." He was standing. She did not raise her head to him. She was speaking not to him alone, but all men. "Mon Dieu!
