“You are coming, Bertrand, are you not?” Micheline insisted with a little catch in her throat.
“Not to-day, Micheline,” he replied after awhile.
“Bertrand!”
The cry came with such a note of reproach that the frown deepened on his forehead.
“Grandmama has such a violent objection to my going,” he said, somewhat shamefacedly.
“And you—at your age——” Micheline broke in more bitterly than she had ever spoken to her brother in her life; “you are going to allow, grandmama, an old woman, to dictate to you as to where you should go, and where not?”
Bertrand at this taunt aimed at his dignity had blushed to the roots of his hair, and a look of obstinacy suddenly hardened his face, making it seem quite set and old.
“There is no question,” he said coldly, “of anybody dictating to me: it is a question of etiquette and of usage. It was Jaume Deydier’s duty in the first instance to pay his respects to me.”
“It is not a question of etiquette or of usage, Bertrand,” the girl retorted hotly, “but of Nicolette our friend and playmate. I do not know what keeps Jaume Deydier from setting foot inside the château, but God knows that he owes us nothing, so why should he come? We on the other hand owe him countless kindnesses and boundless generosity, which we can never repay save by kindliness and courtesy. Why! when you were first at St. Cyr——”
“Micheline!”