"Yes, my child, I shall be there,—at least I hope so."
"But will you be there with him?" persisted the child pointing at me with her little finger.
Whether she was annoyed at Irene's strange insistence, or whether she felt embarrassed, Madame de Fersen kissed her tenderly, took her in her arms and pressed her to her heart, saying, "You are a little goose; go to sleep, my pet."
Then with an absent air she looked through the window of the saloon, saying, "It is a lovely day! How calm is the sea!"
"Very calm," said I, with some irritation at seeing the conversation taking another turn.
Irene closed her eyes and seemed about to go to sleep. Her mother, with infinite grace, caught some of her child's curls and drew them across her eyes, saying softly with motherly fondness, "Sleep, my child, now that I have closed your pretty curtains."
In the early phases of love, there are entrancing trifles which give delight to sensitive souls.
It seemed to me delightful to be able to speak to Madame de Fersen in a half whisper, under pretext of not waking the child. There was in this apparently slight shade of difference something tender, mysterious, veiled, which entranced me.
Irene soon closed her eyes.
"How beautiful she is!" I whispered to her mother. "How much happiness may be read in that lovely face!"