“It seems so,” said Rose, ironically.

“Have you then decided against me too?”

“I?” asked Rose.  “What have I to do with questions of etiquette?  I am only a child:  so considered at least.”

“You a child—­an angel like you?”

“Ask any of them, they will tell you I am a child; and it is to that I owe this conversation, no doubt; if you did not look on me as a child, you would not take this liberty with me,” said the young cat, scratching without a moment’s notice.

“Mademoiselle, do not be angry.  I was wrong.”

“Oh! never mind.  Children are little creatures without reserve, and treated accordingly, and to notice them is to honor them.”

“Adieu then, mademoiselle.  Try to believe no one respects you more than I do.”

“Yes, let us part, for there is Dard’s house; and I begin to suspect that Josephine never sent you.”

“I confess it.”

“There, he confesses it.  I thought so all along; what A dupe I have been!”

“I will offend no more,” said poor silly Edouard.  “Adieu, mademoiselle.  May you find friends as sincere as I am, and more to your taste!”

“Heaven hear your prayers!” replied the malicious thing, casting up her eyes with a mock tragic air.

Edouard sighed; a chill conviction that she was both heartless and empty fell on him.  He turned away without another word.  She called to him with a sudden airy cheerfulness that made him start.  “Stay, monsieur, I forgot—­I have a favor to ask you.”

“I wish I could believe that:”  and his eyes brightened.

Rose stopped, and began to play with her parasol.  “You seem,” said she softly, “to be pretty generous in bestowing your acquaintance on strangers.  I should be glad if I might secure you for a dear friend of mine, Dr. Aubertin.  He will not discredit my recommendation; and he will not make so many difficulties as we do; shall I tell you why?  Because he is really worth knowing.  In short, believe me, it will be a valuable acquaintance for you—­and for him,” added she with all the grace of the De Beaurepaires.

Many a man, inferior in a general way to Edouard Riviere, would have made a sensible reply to this.  Such as, “Oh, any friend of yours, mademoiselle, must be welcome to me,” or the like.  But the proposal caught Edouard on his foible, his vanity, to wit; and our foibles are our manias.  He was mortified to the heart’s core.  “She refuses to know me herself,” thought he, “but she will use my love to make me amuse that old man.”  His heart swelled against her injustice and ingratitude, and his crushed vanity turned to strychnine.  “Mademoiselle,” said he, bitterly and doggedly, but sadly, “were I so happy as to have your esteem, my heart would overflow, not only on the doctor but on every honest person around.  But if I must not have the acquaintance I value more than life, suffer me to be alone in the world, and never to say a word either to Dr. Aubertin, or to any human creature if I can help it.”