“Next time you will transfer your attentions,” she said with a touch of regret. “I wonder who will be your queen for a night?”
“The prettiest girl,” he said gayly.
“Madame Marchand is beautiful.”
“But she is no longer a girl.”
“Oh, no. You see a good deal of her, though?”
“They are over often. We are excellent friends.”
“Renée is quite bewitched with her.”
“Yes, they are very fond of each other.”
And somehow she, Barbe, was no more fond of the child than the child was of her.
Madame Renaud studied her sister’s face as they were unwinding their wraps. It was rather pale, not flushed and triumphant as she hoped.