"How nice of you to call on me," she said, as she entered the salon. "I was just longing for one of the English-speaking race."
The elder Mr. Morton was tall and thin, with something in his carriage that suggested a military upbringing; his hair and eyes gray, the latter very like his nephew's grown sad.
"The place does not suit you?" the elder man inquired, looking at her face.
"Oh, yes, I think so; it is just very hot at present."
"Like the day you tried to ride to Dol," the nephew remarked, wondering if it were only the ride that had given her so much more colour the first time he had seen her, and the sea breeze that had reddened her cheeks the last time.
But there were so many things the girl was anxious to hear about, that she did not allow the conversation to lapse to herself or the weather again before Mademoiselle Thérèse, arrayed in her best, made her appearance. She at once seized upon the younger man, and began to pour out questions about Alice.
"You need not fear any bad results," Mr. Morton said to Barbara. "My nephew is very discreet;" and Barbara, hearing scraps of the conversation, thought he was not only discreet but lawyer-like in his replies.
The visit was not a very long one, Mr. Morton declining an invitation to supper that evening, with promises to come some other time. But before they went, he seized a moment when Barbara's attention was engaged by his nephew to say something that his hostess rather resented.
"The young lady does not look so well as I had imagined she would. I suppose her health is quite good at present?"
"She has complained of nothing," Mademoiselle Thérèse returned, bridling. "Why should she be ill? The food is excellent and abundant, and we do everything imaginable for the comfort of our inmates."