"You go there very often. Is n't it almost every day?"
Florimond hesitated, and, in spite of the frigid dusk, his mother could see that there was irritation in his eye. "Where else can I go, in this precious place? It 's the pleasantest house here."
"Yes, I suppose it 's very pleasant," Mrs. Daintry murmured. "But I would rather have you return to Paris than go there too often," she added, with sudden energy.
"How do you mean, too often? Qu'est-ce qui vous prend, ma mère?" said Florimond.
"Is Rachel—Rachel in love with you?" she inquired solemnly. She felt that this question, though her heart beat as she uttered it, should not be mitigated by a circumlocution.
"Good heavens! mother, fancy talking about love in this temperature!" Florimond exclaimed. "Let one at least get into the house."
Mrs. Daintry followed him reluctantly; for she always had a feeling that if anything disagreeable were to be done, one should not make it less drastic by selecting agreeable conditions. In the drawing-room, before the fire, she returned to her inquiry. "My son, you have not answered me about Rachel."
"Is she in love with me? Why, very possibly!"
"Are you serious, Florimond?"
"Why should n't I be? I have seen the way women go off."
