so very cold to Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire him; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see how it is...."
And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her. "Yes!" said I, "try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To me, it seems a great mess—chaotic as a rag-bag".
"It is something in this fashion", she cried out ere long: "the man is too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor intend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rather trying to justify his opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to talk sense,—for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my ease with you, old lady—you, you dear crosspatch—who take me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, and fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things you and I have agreed to be part of my character".
"That is all very well", I said, making a strenous effort to preserve that gravity and serenity which ran risk of being shaken by this whimsical candor, "but it does not alter that wretched business of the presents. Pack them up, Ginerva, like a good, honest girl, and send them back".
"Indeed I won't", said she stoutly.
"Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that by accepting his presents you give him to understand he will one day receive an equivalent, in your regard...."
"But he won't", she interrupted: "he had his equivalent now, in the pleasure of seeing me wear them—quite enough for him: he is only bourgeois".
This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of the temporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. She rattled on:
"My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of fettering myself, by promise or vow, to this man or that. When first I saw Isidore, I believed he would help me to enjoy it. I believed he would be content with my being a pretty girl; and that we should meet and part and flutter about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold! I find him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling and
