She lingered around in the old garden and the happy light came back to her eyes, the balmy air soothed her ruffled temper. In her secret heart she believed M. Laflamme had really loved her. If there were other pretty girls in the world, there were other rich girls, too. In Canada, where he was going, there were real heiresses, though how much it took to constitute one she had no idea.
He did not come through the garden. Perhaps he meant to stay to supper. Then she would be rather grave and dignified, and show him that he had seriously offended her.
“Renée! Renée, petite!” called Mère Lunde.
There was a quick stride down the street. It turned the corner. She pulled a rose and unthinkingly pressed it to her lips.
“André!” she said in a rather appealing tone.
The tall figure bent over the fence, and the eyes were touched with an eager, responsive light.
“André, were you very angry? I was——”
“Oh, ma’m’selle, who could long be angry with one so charming?” and his whole heart was in his voice.
She gave him the rose. “I must run in to supper,” and she vanished like a sprite.
“She kissed the rose,” he said, pressing it to his lips. “Oh, ma’m’selle, no sweeter flower ever bloomed. But you are a rose set in thorns. The fragrance clings to you, the thorns prick others.”