“Report is a liar,” the man flung out savagely.
Gaspard Denys laughed.
After a moment he said, “Isn’t there a towel or a cloth of some kind? I dried myself in the air.”
“I told you I had not any accommodations for womenkind. You should have left her at the convent. Farther back, it is De Longueville’s business to care for her.”
“But you see he did not. You and he are her only blood kin, and you both cast her off. It is well she has found a friend.”
“The convent and the Sisters would have been better.”
“Come, man, some sort of a towel,” exclaimed Denys imperatively.
Antoine rummaged in the old chest, and presently brought forth one. Denys noted that it was soft and fine and not of home manufacture. Then he led Renée out to the little basin and, dipping the towel in, washed her face and hands.
“Oh, how good it feels!” she cried delightedly.
Gaspard had grown quite used to playing lady’s maid. He took a comb out of its case of Indian work that he carried about in his pocket, and combed out the tumbled hair. She winced now and then at a bad tangle, and laughed on the top of it. Then he bent over and kissed her on the forehead. She caught his head in her small arms and pressed her soft cheek against his caressingly.