"It depends upon what we reckon long; whether by lapse of time—weeks, months, years—or by the events which have occurred. A man may know a maiden for years until he marry her, and then find that he has never known her at all."
"Ah, you are a wit."
"What I am I myself know not; but I know what I am not—and I am not a stream in which people, even pretty maids, can fish with a chance of catching much."
"There is another thing you are not, monsieur," retorted Lucette, smiling.
"There are many. I am not my master's diary, for others to read," he answered with a laugh and a shake of the head.
"Neither are you a servant, monsieur, unless you wear your master's jewels on your fingers."
"By my shroud, but you have keen eyes as well as pretty ones; but even sharp eyes may lead one astray. I wear this jewel by my master's whim," he replied unabashed.
"May I see it closer?"
"Why not—'tis but a paste," and he held it up.
"You take great care of your hands, monsieur, for a serving soldier man," was her comment, so unexpected that Pascal started and laughed.
"Do you think I do hard work?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders.
"Your clothes, too, are new and ill-fitting—they fit you so ill, indeed, that I would swear you have never worn the like before."
"Count not the misfit to me for my sin," replied Pascal gaily. "'Tis that of the rascal who made them. You interest me, mademoiselle; may I ask who you are?"
"Your voice, your manner, your tone, the very bow and air with which you asked that question, everything about you belies the servant, monsieur," continued Lucette. "I
