"It has
ever been your attitude toward me. From that first night we met I have
felt myself under the ban of your disapproval. Poor Monsieur de St.
Aulaire and I!" and she laughed mockingly.
"I pray you, Madame, do not name yourself in the same breath with that
scoundrel!" said Calvert, in a low voice.
"And why not, Monsieur? We are both of the same world, we have both been
brought up after the same fashion, we are probably much alike. Ah,
Monsieur," she went on, defiantly, "is it the Quaker in you--Monsieur
Jefferson has told me that your mother was a Quakeress--that makes you
hate the world, the flesh, and the devil so? Is Paris, then, so much
more wicked than your Virginia? Are we so different from the women of
your world?" She went up to him and put her beautiful face close to his
disturbed one. "Are _you_ so different from the men of our world,
Monsieur, or is it only those grand yeux of yours, with their serious
expression, that make you seem different--and better?" and her eyes
smiled mockingly into his. "Pshaw, sir, you make me feel like a naughty
school-girl when you reprove me so.
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