In her indescribable childish way she
would coquet with a tax-collector or a rag-and-bone man or the
Archbishop of Canterbury. But she has committed no grave
indiscretion, and I am sufficiently her lord and master to exact
obedience.
I pretend, however, to be at her beck and call, and it is a
delight to minister to her radiant happiness--to feel her lean on
my arm and hear her cooing voice say:
"You are so good. I should like to kiss you."
But I do not allow her to kiss me. Never again.
"Seer Marcous, let us go to the little horses."
She has a consuming passion for _petits chevaux_. I speak sagely
of the evils of gambling. She laughs. I weakly take lower
ground.
"What is the good? You have no money."
"Oh-h! But only two francs," she says, holding out her hand.
"Not one. Yesterday you lost."
"But to-day I shall win. I want to give you something I saw in a
shop. Oh, a beautiful thing." Then I feel a hand steal into the
pocket of my dinner jacket where I carry loose silver for this
very purpose, just as a lover of horses carries lumps of sugar
for the nose of a favourite pony, and immediately it is withdrawn
with a cry of joy and triumph, and she skips back out of my
reach.
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