“It is singular, Mdlle. Sophie, that I always believed that you preferred the town to the country.”
“I prefer nothing. I live, that is all.”
She heaved a sigh.
The conversation fell.
I threw a side glance at Sophie. She appeared fatigued and in pain.
“You look pale,” said I; “and although you do not prefer the country to the town, I fancy it does you more good.”
She shrugged her shoulders, by way of reply.
“Perhaps,” said she.
I turned towards my uncle’s cottage, all covered with ivy and creepers, surrounded by flowers and shadowed by the branches of chestnuts and beech-trees.
It was beautiful, seen half in light and half in shadow. A cat was sleeping comfortably on the window-sill; two dogs were playing in front of the door; and a black-headed linnet was singing in its cage.