But although he spoke lightly, his manner was partly forced and he regarded her furtively. Their brief acquaintance had awakened in him an interest, half-paternal, half-curious. Women were an unknown, but beautiful quantity; from the vantage point of a life of single blessedness, he vaguely, but quixotically placed them in the same category with flowers, and his curiosity was no harsher than that of a gardener studying some new variety of bud or blossom. Therefore he hesitated in what he was about to say, shifting in his chair uneasily when they were seated, but finally coming to the point with:
“Have you read the account of the engagement between the Mexican and the American forces at Vera Cruz?”
“No; not yet,” she admitted.
“Nor the list of––of casualties?” he continued, hesitatingly.
“The casualties!” she repeated. “Why––”
“Saint-Prosper has no further interest in the marquis’ sous,” he said quickly.
She gazed straight before her, calm and composed. This absence of any exhibition of feeling reassured the attorney.
“He is––dead?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”