Félicie thrust her fingers into her ears, and a flush rose in her thin cheek.
“Hush, hush, Claire!” she cried. “It is a sin to speak of such things! It is a sin even to listen to you!”
“Oh, I mean to be vielle fille, and privileged,” said Claire, with a laugh. “I could not go about the world with my eyes shut, as you do. Do you really believe it to be rose-coloured?”
Mme. de Beaudrillart crossed the room from the window, where she had been standing.
“What are you talking about, children?” she demanded.
“Claire says such things,” murmured Félicie, resuming her work. “It is shocking!”
“Félicie is a baby,” remarked the younger sister, contemptuously.
“Hush, hush! I have often desired you, Claire, to be more careful in what you repeat before your sister. And I am surprised you can think of anything but this anxiety of poor Léon’s. I have been turning the matter over and over.”
“Have you decided on anything?”
“I will tell you. Of course, what he appears to dread cannot happen. It is impossible to conceive the idea of Poissy passing from the family.”