"I am not surprised at that," said the gallant Duprèz; "there is reason in such obedience!"
Thelma looked at him inquiringly, ignoring the implied compliment.
"You think so?" she said simply "I am glad! I always hope that he will one day be well in mind,--and every little sign of reason in him is pleasant to me."
Duprèz was silent. It was evidently no use making even an attempt at flattering this strange girl; surely she must be dense not to understand compliments that most other women compel from the lips of men as their right? He was confused--his Paris breeding was no use to him--in fact he had been at a loss all day, and his conversation had, even to himself, seemed particularly shallow and frothy. This Mademoiselle Güldmar, as he called her, was by no means stupid--she was not a mere moving statue of lovely flesh and perfect color whose outward beauty was her only recommendation,--she was, on the contrary, of a most superior intelligence,--she had read much and thought more,--and the dignified elegance of her manner, and bearing would have done honor to a queen. After all, thought Duprèz musingly, the social creeds of Paris might be wrong--it was just possible! There might be women who were womanly,--there might be beautiful girls who were neither vain nor frivolous,--there might even be creatures of the feminine sex, besides whom a trained Parisian coquette would seem nothing more than a painted fiend of the neuter gender. These were new and startling considerations to the feather-light mind of the Frenchman,--and unconsciously his fancy began to busy itself with the old romantic histories of the ancient French chivalry, when faith, and love, and loyalty, kept white the lilies of France, and the stately courtesy and unflinching pride of the ancien régime made its name honored throughout the world. An odd direction indeed for Pierre Duprèz's reflection to wander in--he, who never reflected on either past or future, but was content to fritter away the present as pleasantly as might be--and the only reason to which his unusually serious reverie could be attributed was the presence of Thelma. She certainly had a strange influence on them all, though she herself was not aware of it,--and not only Errington, but each one of his companions had been deeply considering during the day, that notwithstanding the unheroic tendency of modern living, life itself might be turned to good and even noble account, if only an effort were made in the right direction.