“He has never begrudged me anything,” she said, with compunction, “and it made me feel more than ever ashamed to-day to see him in his bare, uncomfortable room, lonely and cold-looking, and to feel that I—I—”
She did not finish, for Léon put his head near hers and whispered:
“He should be satisfied to be your father.”
She smiled, and let him murmur caressing nothings, but said, presently:
“Léon, I think my father would like to come to Poissy.”
“Well, why not? Of course. Why didn’t you ask him? Now that I think of it, I believe he has never been there since our engagement. Why, it is disgraceful! Certainly he must come. You should have fixed a day.”
She laughed a little shyly. “Perhaps I should, but, to tell you the truth, I was afraid, until you had spoken to Madame de Beaudrillart and your sisters. Are you sure they would not object?”
He turned away his head with a momentary hesitation. Then, “My sisters have nothing to say to it,” he said, impatiently. “As for my mother, certainly she will not object.”
“But will she make it pleasant for him? You understand, Léon, that she thinks we—my father and I—are different—not of her class. With you near, it matters very little to me, but for my father I should feel it another matter, and I could not endure slights for him. That was why I said nothing to-day, though I am sure he expected it.”
“We will drive in to-morrow, and carry him off.”