This was more than she had bargained for. She leaned against the wall instinctively, as if needing more substantial support than her limbs. Her throat seemed parched, so that when she would have spoken the result was merely a spasmodic gasp. Even the friendly semi-darkness of the little antechamber failed to hide her confusion from her visitors.
Then, recovering her self-possession by a violent effort, she reopened the inner door and announced, feebly,—
"Monsieur Lerouge,—Mademoiselle Remy!"
CHAPTER XXI[ToC]
Fortunately for Mlle. Fouchette, Jean's astonishment and temporary confusion at the unexpected apparition of the angel of his dreams extinguished every other consideration.
Mlle. Remy stood before him—in his appartement—smiling, gracious, a picture of feminine youth and loveliness,—her earnest blue eyes looking straight into his lustrous brown ones, searching, pénétrante!
He forgot Fouchette; he forgot his friend Henri; he forgot even the presence of an angry father.