"'Nearly my uncle.' No--considering that Bertrade is my first cousin; and, as to the rest--" She stopped abruptly, and then finished with a laugh. "You flatter yourself!" "Alas, no! I shall soon be forty-two." She looked at him in surprise. "Oh, well! you don't look it." "Thank you! There now! Do you see how all the natives are gazing at you? I can assure you, Bijou, that when I come to do any shopping alone, they do not watch me so eagerly." "I tell you it is this pink dress that astonishes them." "But why should they be astonished? They are accustomed to that, because you often come to Pont-sur-Loire, and you always wear pink." Ever since she had left off her mourning for her parents, who had died four years ago, Denyse had adopted pink as her only colour for all her dresses. The reason was, she said, because her grandmother preferred seeing her dressed thus. Anyhow, this pink, a very pale, soft shade, like that of the petals of a rose just as it begins to fall, suited her to perfection, as it was almost exactly the same delicate colour as her skin. She always wore it, and when the weather was cold or gloomy she would put on a long, gathered cloak, which covered her entirely, and on taking this dark wrap off, she would come out, looking as fresh and sweet as a flower, and seem to brighten up everything around her. Her dresses were always of batiste, muslin, or some soft woollen material, comparatively inexpensive. The greatest luxury to which she treated herself now and again was a _taffetas_ or surah silk. And then, nothing could be more simple than the way these dresses were made--always the same little gathered blouses and straight skirts, and never any trimming whatever, except, perhaps, in the winter, a narrow edging of fur. "Yes, that's quite true," she said thoughtfully, "I am always in pink. You don't like that?" "Not like it? I--good heavens!--why, I think it is perfectly charming! I tell you, Bijou, that if I were not an old man, I should make love to you all the time!" "You are not an old man!" "Very many thanks! If, however, you do not look upon me as quite an old man--which, by the bye, is certainly debatable--I am at any rate a married man." "Yes, that's true, and so much the better for you, for there is nothing more stupid and tiresome than men who are always making love." "Well, then, you must know a terrible number of people who are stupid and tiresome." "Why?" "Because everyone makes love to you--more or less!" "Not at all! Why, just think! I was brought up in the most isolated way, like a veritable savage. When papa and mamma were living, they were always ill, and I was shut up with them, and never saw anyone. It is scarcely four years since I came to live with grandmamma, where I do see people." "Oh, yes; plenty of them, and no mistake!" "You speak as though that annoyed you?"