stand that just," he said, after a moment. And then he
reflected further and added, "You are of an oddness so peculiar. Why
must the world matter? I am my world--nothing matters to me. _Vous etes
tortillante!_ you are afraid of stupid people and the tongues they have
in them. That is your drollness. And anyway, I may go to Constance if I
will. I may go anywhere if I will. You cannot prevent."

She looked off across the lake.

"You ought to want to do what pleases me," she suggested.

"But I do not," he said vigorously; "I want to do what pleases me, and
you must want it too,--it will be much better for America when all the
women do that. I observe much, and I observe especially in particular
that. An American woman is like a queen--she does her own wish always,
and is always unhappy; in Europe she does her husband's wish, and it is
much better for her and very good for him, and they are very happy, and
I am coming to Constance."

"But I have no husband," said Rosina insistently.

"It will be very good if you learn to obey, and then you can have one
again."

"But I never mean to marry again."

"I never mean to marry once, _surtout pas une Americaine_."

She felt hurt at this speech and made no reply.

"But I mean to come to Constance."

"Monsieur, you say that we see too much of one another; then why do you
want to drive our acquaintance to the last limits of boredom?"

"But you do not bore me," he said; and then after a long pause he added,
"yet."

She was forced to feel that the "y" in "yet" had probably begun with a
capital.

"I want to go to the hotel now," she said, in a tired tone.

"Let us go and get an ice or some coffee first; yes?"

"Don't keep saying 'yes' that way," she cried impatiently; "you know how
it frets me."

He took her arm gently.

"You are indeed fatigued," he said in a low tone, "I have troubled you
much to-night. But I have trouble myself too. Did you see how unhappy I
was, and was it so that you sent for me? _Dites-moi franchement_."

"Yes," she answered, with simplicity.

"And why did you care?"

"I didn't want you to think what I knew that you were thinking."

"Did you care that I was unhappy?"

"I cared that you thought that I would lie."

"I was quite furious," he meditated; "I came from the train so late and
found that you were gone out. _Je ne me fache jamais sans raison_,--but
I had good reason to-night."

"You had no right to be angry over my going out, and