“Why maladroit?” asked Camille, opening his eyes.
“Let us talk of something else,” replied Rose, coolly.
Camille turned red. He understood that he had done something very stupid, but he could not conceive what. He looked from one sister to the other alternately. Rose was smiling ironically, Josephine had her eyes bent demurely on a handkerchief she was embroidering.
That evening Camille drew Rose aside, and asked for an explanation of her “maladroit.”
“So it was,” replied Rose, sharply.
But as this did not make the matter quite clear, Camille begged a little further explanation.
“Was it your part to make difficulties?”
“No, indeed.”
“Was it for you to tell her a secret marriage would not be delicate? Do you think she will be behind you in delicacy? or that a love without respect will satisfy her? yet you must go and tell her you respected her too much to ask her to marry you secretly. In other words, situated as she is, you asked her not to marry you at all: she consented to that directly; what else could you expect?”
“Maladroit! indeed,” said Camille, “but I would not have said it, only I thought”—