Evie frowned critically at the picture. "It is not half good looking enough."
"That is possible, Mademoiselle," said François, without enthusiasm.
He had never done such a thing before. He marveled at his own temerity, even now.
"Mademoiselle, you will not be angry if I say somethings?" he asked, and as he grew more and more agitated, his English took a quainter turn.
Evie opened her eyes in astonishment. "No, of course not."
"And you must promise not to tell Mr. Morelle."
"It depends," hesitated the girl, and then, "I promise."
"Mademoiselle," said François a little huskily, "I have a little sister so big as you in Switzerland. Her name is Freda, and, Mademoiselle, when I see you here, I think of her, and I say, I will speak to this good young lady. Mademoiselle, I do not like to see you here!" He said this dramatically.
Evie went crimson. "I don't know what you mean."
"I have make you cross," said François, in an agony of self-reproach. "You think I am silly, but I speak with a good heart."