She pushed the great chair of Indian wickerwork into place before the window-bay, and when I was at rest she drew up a low hassock and sat at my feet.
"Now you may go on," she said.
"You have not told me what you would have me say."
"The truth," she commanded.
"'"What is truth," said jesting Pilate,'" I quoted. "Why do you suppose my Lord Bacon thought the Roman procurator jested at such a time and place?"
"You are quibbling, Monsieur John. I want to know why you are so impatient to be gone."
"Saw you ever a man worthy the name who could be content to bide inactive when duty calls?"
"That is not the whole truth," she said, half absently. "You think you are unwelcome here."
"'Twas you said that; not I. But I must needs know your father will be relieved when he is safely quit of me."
"'Twas you said that, not I, Monsieur John," she retorted, giving me back my own words. "Has ever word been brought you that he would speed your parting?"