Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned.
"Jean," she cried merrily, "you are harder to see these days than a prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?"
"Ma foi!" protested Jean, a little anxiously. "Mademoiselle does not mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the day before that?"
"Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Marseilles"—she manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. "And even now that I have snatched a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting for you outside."
"Let them wait!" said Jean tensely.
"Oh, no; we mustn't do that," she said laughingly, shaking her head. "So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that—can you guess what? That you are not going to Paris with us after all."
"Not going to Paris!"—Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated the words.
"With us—silly boy!" she smiled teasingly. "Are you disappointed?"
She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet.
"But mademoiselle knows," he blundered. "I—I do not understand. It is a great disappointment."