"You even know it yourself then?" he asked, quickly, to take her by surprise.
She withdrew into the mysterious recesses of her little soul, which was too transparent, reflected its radiance too much; she wanted to veil that radiance from him and from the others:
"What?" she said. "There's nothing to know! . . . Everybody? Everybody who? Everybody what? . . ."
"Everybody's talking about it, about Uncle Henri's making love to you?"
She tried to laugh; and the little silver bells sounded shrill and false:
"Making love to me? . . . Uncle Henri? . . . People are mad!"
"You were out with him yesterday . . . in a motor-car."
"And what is there in that?"
"Don't do it again."
"Why not?"
"Everybody's talking about it."
Again she tried to laugh; and the little silver bells sounded shrill and false:
"Uncle Henri!" she said. "Why, he might be my father!"
"You know you don't mean what you say."
"Uncle Henri!"
"He is a young man . . . Marianne, tell me that it's not true . ."
