I know Guy does not think so, for he is devoted to his little Agnes; and Héloïse is certainly the prettier child. But neither of them is equal to the little King, who is a most beautiful boy, and has the quaintest sayings ever heard from a child. There, now! Did any body ever see any thing like these men? Messire Tristan set forth yesterday morning; and what should he say to Guy (who told me, with his eyes full of fun) but— "Damoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with a man’s heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection; but I have borne long enough with her caprice, and have now transferred my affections to one who can be truer!" Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why, the man must have thought I did not mean what I said! My caprice, indeed! Trifle with a man’s heart! And as if affection could be transferred at will from one person to another! Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations. "What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I. "Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O little Elaine, thou art so funny!" "Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me, Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own minds?" "Well, they don’t," said Guy. "Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied. "Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality of women. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common." "Only among women?" said I. "Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor De Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a pebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will consider him a gem of priceless value." Well, I am sure I have no objection to that. But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Since other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have misunderstood Eschine, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet endurance of hers—partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, I suspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it—can it be—possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond? I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever I look at him? Why should I feel a sensation, of which I cannot get rid, as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant and perilous? It is not reason that tells me this: it is something more like instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man, or only a foolish, baseless fancy, of which I ought to be ashamed?