“If they think them they had better say them,” the Baroness rejoined.  “Then they can be contradicted.  Please contradict that whenever you hear it, and don’t be afraid of coming to see me on account of the company I keep.  I have the honor of knowing more distinguished men, my poor child, than you are likely to see in a life-time.  I see very few women; but those are women of rank.  So, my dear young Puritan, you need n’t be afraid.  I am not in the least one of those who think that the society of women who have lost their place in the vrai monde is necessary to form a young man.  I have never taken that tone.  I have kept my place myself, and I think we are a much better school than the others.  Trust me, Clifford, and I will prove that to you,” the Baroness continued, while she made the agreeable reflection that she could not, at least, be accused of perverting her young kinsman.  “So if you ever fall among thieves don’t go about saying I sent you to them.”

Clifford thought it so comical that he should know—­in spite of her figurative language—­what she meant, and that she should mean what he knew, that he could hardly help laughing a little, although he tried hard.  “Oh, no! oh, no!” he murmured.

“Laugh out, laugh out, if I amuse you!” cried the Baroness.  “I am here for that!” And Clifford thought her a very amusing person indeed.  “But remember,” she said on this occasion, “that you are coming—­next year—­to pay me a visit over there.”

About a week afterwards she said to him, point-blank, “Are you seriously making love to your little cousin?”

“Seriously making love”—­these words, on Madame Munster’s lips, had to Clifford’s sense a portentous and embarrassing sound; he hesitated about assenting, lest he should commit himself to more than he understood.  “Well, I should n’t say it if I was!” he exclaimed.

“Why would n’t you say it?” the Baroness demanded.  “Those things ought to be known.”

“I don’t care whether it is known or not,” Clifford rejoined.  “But I don’t want people looking at me.”

“A young man of your importance ought to learn to bear observation—­to carry himself as if he were quite indifferent to it.  I won’t say, exactly, unconscious,” the Baroness explained.  “No, he must seem to know he is observed, and to think it natural he should be; but he must appear perfectly used to it.  Now you have n’t that, Clifford; you have n’t that at all.  You must have that, you know.  Don’t tell me you are not a young man of importance,” Eugenia added.  “Don’t say anything so flat as that.”

“Oh, no, you don’t catch me saying that!” cried Clifford.

“Yes, you must come to Germany,” Madame Munster continued.  “I will show you how people can be talked about, and yet not seem to know it.  You will be talked about, of course, with me; it will be said you are my lover.  I will show you how little one may mind that—­how little I shall mind it.”