A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sitting together in the drawing-room; it was late in the evening, the old Marquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure was engaged elsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left alone together. He was reading, but she was sitting gazing at the fire. She could hardly summon up courage to say, even to her dear brother, what she wished to say.
“Henri,” she said at last, “does Adolphe return here from Fleury?” (Fleury was the name of Denot’s house).
“I hope he will,” said Henri; “but what makes you ask? the place is dull without him, isn’t it?”
“Dull! you don’t find Marie dull, do you, Henri?”
“Oh, Marie!” said he, laughing, “Marie amuses our father, and she charms me; but you might find the house dull, in spite of Marie—eh, Agatha?”
“Indeed no, Henri; the house was not dull even when you were in Paris, and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were alone together here; it was not my being dull made me ask whether Adolphe was to return.”
“But you wouldn’t be sorry that he should come back, Agatha? You don’t want to banish poor Adolphe from Durbellière, I hope?”
“No,” said Agatha, doubtfully, “no, I don’t want to banish him—of course, Henri, I can’t want to banish your friend from the house; but—”
“But what?” said Henri, now perceiving that his sister had something on her mind—something that she wished to say to him; “but what, dearest Agatha?”
“I don’t want to banish him from the house, Henri; but I wish he would not return just at present; but you haven’t answered my question—you haven’t told me whether you expect him.”