"I was thinking that, little and fragile as you look—like a delicate piece of Dresden china—you're a brave girl."
"Oh, thank you!" I cried. "I do love to be called 'brave' better than anything, because I'm really such a coward. You don't think I've done wrong?"
"No-o. So far as you've told me."
"What, don't you believe I've told you the truth?" I flashed out.
"Of course. But do women ever tell the whole truth to men—even to their brothers? What about that kind friend of yours in England?"
"What kind friend?" I asked, confused for an instant. Then I remembered, and—almost—chuckled. The conversation I had had with him came back to me, and I recalled a queer look on his face which had puzzled me till I forgot it. Now I was on the point of blurting out: "Oh, the kind friend is a Miss Paget, who said she'd like to help me if I needed help," when a spirit of mischief seized me. I determined to keep up the little mystery I'd inadvertently made. "I know," I said gravely. "Quite a different kind of friend."
"Some one you like better than Monsieur Charretier?"
"Much better."
"Rich, too?"
"Very rich, I believe, and of a noble family."