“A father might. A grandfather has only madame Collet to his credit,” smiled madame Vervier.
“Her talent is too sharp. Like herself,” said André.
“But the parts she prefers need the keen edge,” said madame Vervier.
“Every part needs a soul, and she has none; elle n’a pas d’âme,” said André.
Madame Vervier defended her friend.
“With so much intelligence she needs less soul than other people.”
“Pardon, chère madame. With so much intelligence one needs more. It is that one feels in her. The sheath is too thin. The blade comes through.”
“Vous êtes méchant,” said madame Vervier, and there was in her voice none of the inciting gaiety usual to the reproach; she spoke gravely, looking down at the cloth and slightly moving her spoon and fork upon it, and Giles suddenly divined that poor mademoiselle Blanche was in love with André.
“Mais non! Mais non! I think her charming,” laughed André. “But I can understand that madame Dumont is her grandmother.”