words enough a moment ago to say that Francie is exquisite, and now you will be so good as to stick to that. Come, be intelligent!"
"Do you call her by her little name, like that?" Mme. de Brécourt asked, giving him another cup of tea.
"Only to you. She is perfectly simple. It is impossible to imagine anything better. And think of the delight of having that charming object before one's eyes—always, always! It makes a different thing of the future."
"My poor child," said Mme. de Brécourt, "you can't pick up a wife like that—the first little American that comes along. You know I hoped you wouldn't marry at all—what a pity I think it—for a man. At any rate, if you expect us to like Miss—what's her name?—Miss Fancy, all I can say is we won't. We can't!"
"I shall marry her then without your approbation."
"Very good. But if she deprives you of that (you have always had it, you are used to it, it's a part of your life), you will hate her at the end of a month."
"I don't care. I shall have had my month."
"And she—poor thing?"
"Poor thing, exactly! You will begin to pity her, and that will make you cultivate her, and that will make you find how adorable she is. Then you'll like her, then you'll love her, then you'll see
