"There never was a good occasion for Esther. After all she was right: if she had laughed she would have shown her teeth. Ah! but do not hide yours. I have seen them, and yet I shall say nothing about them. I know nothing sillier than compliments. Would it be impertinent to ask your name? But no; do not tell me it. I guessed Esther's: I baptized her Rebecca. You see that I detected the race. I want to guess yours." "Come, then, guess." "Well, a very French name,--Louise, Blanche, Charlotte?" "That's it; my name is Caroline." "There! you see--and you come from one of the provinces?" "From the country." "But see! why have n't you red hands? Do you like it here in Paris?" "No, not at all." "I will lay a wager your relatives have compelled you--" "No, no one has compelled me." "But you find it tedious here? Confess now that you do." "O no; I never find it tedious anywhere." "You are no longer frank." "I assure you I am." "You are then very reasonable?" "I pride myself on being so." "And positive, perhaps?" "No." "Romantic, though?" "Still less." "What then?" "Nothing." "How nothing?" "Nothing that merits the slightest attention. I can read, write, and reckon. I thrum a little on the piano. I am very obedient. I am conscientious in the discharge of my duties, and that is all it is important that I should be here." "Well, now, you do not know yourself. Do you want me to tell you what you are? You are a person of intelligence and an excellent soul." "You believe so?" "I am sure of it. I see very quickly, and I judge tolerably well. And you? Do you form an idea of people at first sight?" "O yes, more or less." "Well, then, what do you think of me, for example?" "Naturally I think of you what you think of me." "Is that out of gratitude or of politeness?" "No, it is from a sort of instinct." "Indeed? I thank you for it. Now I will tell you what really gives me pleasure: not brightness of mind, by any means; almost everybody can have that; it can at least in a measure be acquired; but thorough goodness,--you do not think me very bad, do you? Then,--come, will you let me take your hand?" "What for?" "I will tell you directly. Do you refuse me? There is nothing more honest in the world than the sentiment which causes me to ask that favor of you." There was something so true and so touching in the face and accent of this man, that, in spite of the strangeness of his demand and the still greater strangeness of my consent, I put my hand in his with confidence. He pressed it gently, detaining it but a second; but tears came to his eyes and he faltered as if with suffocation, "Thanks; take good care of my poor mother!"