hat he felt how much he liked her. He hated, in
general, a large ring of people who had drawn up chairs in the public
room of an hotel: some one was sure to undertake to be funny.

He succeeded at last in drawing Dora away; he endeavoured to give the
movement a casual air. There was nothing peculiar, after all, in their
walking a little in the passage; a dozen other persons were doing the
same. The girl had the air of not suspecting in the least that he could
have anything particular to say to her--of responding to his appeal
simply out of her general gentleness. It was not in her companion's
interest that her mind should be such a blank; nevertheless his
conviction that in spite of the ministrations of Mademoiselle Bourde she
was not falsely ingenuous made him repeat to himself that he would still
make her his own. They took several turns in the hall, during which it
might still have appeared to Dora Temperly that her cousin Raymond had
nothing particular to say to her. He remarked several times that he
should certainly turn up in Paris in the spring; but when once she had
replied that she was very glad that subject seemed exhausted. The young
man cared little, however; it was not a question now of making any
declaration: he only wanted to be with her. Suddenly, when they were at
the end of the corridor furthest removed from the room they had left, he
said to her: 'Your mother is very strange. Why has she got such an idea
about Paris?'

'How do you mean, such an idea?' He had stopped, making the girl stand
there before him.

'Well, she thinks so much of it without having ever seen it, or really
knowing anything. She appears to have planned out such a great life
there.'

'She thinks it's the best place,' Dora rejoined, with the dim smile that
always charmed our young man.

'The best place for what?'

'Well, to learn French.' The girl continued to smile.

'Do you mean for her? She'll never learn it; she can't.'

'No; for us. And other things.'

'You know it already. And _you_ know other things,' said Raymond.

'She wants us to know them better--better than any girls know them.'

'I don't know what things you mean,' exclaimed the young man, rather
impatiently.

'Well, we shall see,' Dora returned, laughing.

He said nothing for a minute, at the end of which he resumed: 'I hope
you won't be offended if I say that it seems curious your mother should
have such aspirations--such Napoleonic plans. I mean being