"Then you never see yourself, or your mirror is a poor one. The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that you look less childish, somehow, and that you have quite a grown-up air."
"How absurd, father! In what does this change consist?"
"I can hardly explain, for your features have not changed, thank Heaven! but there is an air of sweet and gentle dignity about you that I never noticed before, and an expression of serene happiness on your features."
"How could it be otherwise when you have returned, father? It is something better than joy, it is happiness I feel on seeing you again, and happiness inclines one to be rather quiet and serious, you know."
"If you go on talking in this way my eyes will be so full of tears I shall not be able to see you at all, so let us change the subject. You have been well, you say; that is the main thing, of course, but have you not been lonely and dull here, my poor child? The winter months are so gloomy in the country."
"I have not been lonely a single moment, father. Haven't I my books, and my piano, and my embroidery, and my walks to occupy me?"
"And Suzanne, I scarcely need ask if she has been kind to you?"
"As you know her so well you must know that she has been kindness itself."
"And—"
But Yvon stopped short.