"Mademoiselle!"
She started visibly, as if he had read her thoughts as well as heard her sigh, and felt the hot blood mantle her neck again,—for the second time within her memory.
"Pardon! mademoiselle," he said, gently, "I forgot. I was thinking——"
"Of her? Yes,—I know. It is—how you startled me!"
There was a perceptible chord of sympathy in her voice, and he moved his chair around to hers and made as if he would take her hand in the usual way. But to his surprise she rose and, seating herself on a low divan some distance from him, leaned her elbows on her knees and rested her downcast face between her hands. She could not bear to have him touch her.
"Mon enfant! Mon amie!" he remonstrated, in a grieved tone.
"Bah! it is nothing," she murmured; "and nothing magnified is still nothing."
There was that in her voice which touched a heart surcharged with tenderness. He came over and stood beside her.
"I was thinking——"
"Of her,—yes,—I understand——"