“Why, your one?”
“My one?” asked the young lady, reddening, “my what?”
“The little one—Edouard—Monsieur Riviere.”
“Oh, Monsieur Riviere,” said Rose, acting nonchalance. “Why could you not say so? you use such phrases, who can conjecture what you mean? I will come to Monsieur Riviere directly; mamma will be so glad.”
Jacintha gone, Rose tore up the letter and locked up the pieces, then ran to the glass. Etc.
Edouard had been so profoundly miserable he could stand it no longer; in spite of his determination not to visit Beaurepaire while it contained a rival, he rode over to see whether he had not tormented himself idly: above all, to see the beloved face.
Jacintha put him into the salle a manger. “By that you will see her alone,” said the knowing Jacintha. He sat down, hat and whip in hand, and wondered how he should be received—if at all.
In glides Rose all sprightliness and good-humor, and puts out her hand to him; the which he kisses.
“How could I keep away so long?” asked he vaguely, and self-astonished.
“How indeed, and we missing you so all the time!”