“Now, by my faith, mademoiselle,” said De Valette, coloring with mingled feelings, “I can indeed, no longer discredit your pretensions to the art of disguise.”

“Indeed, you have no reason to do so,” she said, smiling; “though I scarcely thought, Eustace, that you had less penetration than your dog!  But do you remember what I once told you;—­twice deceived, beware of the third time!”

“I would not have believed then, Lucie, that you were so skilled in deceit!” he said, in a tone of bitterness; but quickly added, carelessly, “I willingly confess that I have not penetration enough to detect the disguises of a woman’s heart!”

“It would certainly be difficult to detect that which has no existence,” said Lucie, gaily; “we are but too guileless, too single-hearted, in truth, for our own happiness.”

“And for the happiness of others, you may add,” rejoined De Valette; “the boasted simplicity of your sex is so closely allied to art, that, by my troth, the most practised could scarce detect the difference!”

“I begin to have faith in miracles,” said Lucie, with arch gravity; “surely nothing less than one could transform the gallant De Valette, the very pink of chivalrous courtesy, into a reviler of that sex, who”—­

“Who are not quite so faultless as my credulity once led me to believe them,” interrupted De Valette.

“Nay, if you have lost your faith in our infallibility,” she answered, “your case is hopeless, and I would counsel you to put on the cowl, at once, and hie away to some dull monastery, where you can rail, at leisure, against woman and her deceptive attributes.  It might form a new and fitting exercise for the holy brotherhood, and, methinks, would sound less harshly from their lips, than from those of a young and generous cavalier.”

“I am not yet so weary of the world as to avail myself of your advice,” he replied; “however grateful I may, feel for the kindness which prompts you to give it.”

“I hope you do feel more gratitude than your looks express,” said Lucie; “for, though I have labored most abundantly to please you, I cannot obtain one smile for my reward.”

“You have never found it difficult to give me pleasure, Lucie,” returned De Valette; “though unhappily I have been less fortunate in regard to you.”

“You are petulant to-day, Eustace,” she said; “or you would not accuse me so wrongfully; nay, you have been very, I must say it, very disagreeable of late, and followed your own selfish amusements, leaving me to wander about alone like a forsaken wood-nymph.  Indeed, it is neither kind nor gallant in you.”

“And can you think I have consulted my own inclinations, in doing so?” he asked, with vivacity.  “Believe me, Lucie, my heart is ever with you, and when I have been absent or neglectful, it was only from the fear of obtruding those attentions, which I thought were no longer prized by you.”