“Come in, Henri. Be moved to admiration of my John. Even you will concede that he is improving.”
To the personage in blue-gray uniform who clattered at her side, she added:
“You have the privilege of viewing at close range the famed Dolores Trent.”
“Ah, the mademoiselle which Meestaire Cabot have rescue?” inquired the French cavalry officer.
“The same. Is there anything like rescuing a lady, my dear d’Elie, to excite a man’s interest in her? He is pleased with her because pleased with himself—so pleased that he wants to keep right on rescuing her. I might have known that John would locate the disappearing heroine of his hero act sooner or later. But how naïvely American to try to make a convenience of his own home!”
In Dolores’ silence Mrs. Morrison denied the charge.
“Miss Trent was sent here through Madame Sheehan’s agency, to which I frequently apply. Up to the moment you came in just now, Mrs. Cabot, she thought me the mother of the child in need of a governess. I assure you that Mr. Cabot had nothing to do with her application.”
An arpeggio of light laughter, accompanied by a bass chord, greeted this defense.
“No use talking, she’s good, isn’t she?” Mrs. Cabot asked her escort, before turning directly to Dolores. “But I fear, Miss Trent, that you’re not quite good enough. A mother owes something to her child, even though a father thinks that he does not. I thank you for coming. You have succeeded better than our parson friend’s lynx in giving me a rare sensation—that of surprise. I wish you a very good morning.”
Dolores rose; heard a quiet voice making her reply.