But she knew what had been in Count Ploare's mind.

Gaston Belward was different--he had befriended her father.

She had not singular scruples regarding men, for she despised most of them.

She was not a Mademoiselle Cerise, nor a Madame Juliette, though they were higher on the plane of art than she; or so the world put it.

She had not known a man who had not, one time or another, shown himself common or insulting.
But since the first moment she had seen Gaston, he had treated her as a lady.
A lady?
She had seen enough to smile at that.