“Just so. Who brings you news?”
“Pitou.”
“And pray who is Pitou?” asked the young noble with a free and easy air which changed the red of the listener’s cheek to crimson.
“You know well enough,” was her reply: “Pitou is the farmboy that my father took on out of charity: the one who played propriety for me when I went to the dance.”
“Lord, yes—the chap with knees that look like knots tied in a rope.”
Catherine set to laughing. Pitou felt lowered; he looked at his knees, so useful lately while he was keeping pace with a horse, and he sighed.
“Come, come, do not tear my poor Pitou to pieces,” said Catherine; “Let me tell you that he wanted to come with me just now—to Fertemilon, where I pretended I was going.”
“Why did you not accept the squire—he would have amused you.”
“Not always,” laughed the girl.
“You are right, my pet,” said Isidore, fixing his eyes, brilliant with love, on the pretty girl.