‘_Petite_ Ange is a lovely child,’ he answered: ‘nothing more. She is open and innocent as the day. Any one might deceive her who had the mind to do so. She loves birds and flowers and the poor, and considers _monsieur son père_ to be a saint from heaven. _Voilà!_ that is _petite_ Ange.’ ‘Do you think she will make the worse wife for being so sweet and innocent?’ ‘Not for a good man, mademoiselle, who can guide her aright; but I am a bad man who requires guidance. And the woman who can do that must be something very much higher and better than the ordinary run of women.’ ‘Oh, then you had better marry old Denise,’ I said, out of patience with his trifling. ‘She is old enough and steady enough to keep you straight, and as she whipped you when you were in petticoats, it will come quite naturally to her.’ How he laughed at the idea! I had never heard Armand de Nesselrode laugh before, but now his voice rang out sweet and clear along the deserted road, and woke the echoes in the hills beyond. ‘I am glad you approve of my proposal,’ I continued, fain to laugh with him, though I tried hard to prevent it. ‘Mademoiselle, you do me too much honour! I have never yet aspired to a Baronne de Nesselrode without a tooth left in her head. Now, have patience whilst I give you a description of the sort of woman I want to win for my wife.’ But something in his eyes alarmed me, and I would not let him speak. ‘No, no, no!’ I exclaimed hastily, as I jumped up from my grassy seat, and shook the dust from my skirts. ‘I don’t want to hear it, monsieur: I have not time. It is very late, and I must go home at once. What will they all say when they hear of my adventure?’ ‘You must not come this way again alone, since you are easily frightened, mademoiselle. But if you will let me know—me only, you understand, it is not necessary we should tell our private affairs to all the world—when you intend to make your promenade upon the Piron road, I will take care to be within call—not to intrude upon your privacy, but to be ready in case you desire to appeal to me for assistance.’ Was he laughing at me, or did he imagine it possible I could permit him to follow at my heels like a dog or a lacquey, waiting to receive my orders? I glanced up at his face, expecting to see a twinkle in his eyes which should prove he was only in jest, but they were solemn as those of a judge. The Baron de Nesselrode, in his beautiful chivalry and devotion to the weaker sex, had been really in earnest in making this offer. But of course I rejected it. ‘It is impossible!’ I replied. ‘You must not dream of such a thing. You would set all St. Pucelle talking about me!’ ‘You think I would be barbarous enough to take advantage of such a trust by forcing my conversation upon you! Ah, mademoiselle, you do me wrong! No saint in her niche could be farther removed from the annoyance of my presence than you should be, if you thought fit to accept my protection in your solitary rambles.’