Petty was in a very indicative mood already. Had he chosen any other verb she might have survived the ordeal, but under the circumstances to openly affirm: “I love; Thou lovest; he loves——.”
Well, there are limits to every one’s endurance under extreme emotion.
Petty hesitated and was lost. Not a word would come. Her throat throbbed and it seemed as though that pound of nougat Beverly had alluded to must be stuck in it.
“Proceed, if you please, Madamoiselle,” urged Monsieur. Petty sat almost directly in front of him, or rather she stood—Miss Woodhull wished each pupil to stand while reciting—and upon being urged to “proceed” raised to him a pair of violet eyes swimming in tears, and a face of abject woe.
Monsieur Sautelle was not over thirty. A dapper, exquisite little man. He was distraught at the sight of this tearful damsel and, very naturally attributed her distress to unpreparedness. Petty was a pretty, inconsequential little creature born to play upon the feelings of one man or another. It did not much matter who he happened to be so long as he could satisfy the sentimental element in her makeup, and she was mostly sentimentality.
“Madamoiselle I implore. Why these tears? You quite desolate me. It is no such crushing matter that you do not know ‘to love’.”
“But oh, I do. I do,” sobbed Petty.
“Then you will most kindly demonstrate that fact to the class. They wait.”
If ever instructor was taken literally Monsieur Sautelle was then and there, for with an overpowering sob she swayed forward, flung both arms about the dismayed man’s neck and burying her face against his immaculate collar, gurgled: “Oh, I love! I do love! Thou lov-v-est! He—He—loves——me!”
It was the most astonishing conjugation the startled Professor had ever heard in all his thirty years, and he frantically strove to remove the clinging damsel, at the same time commanding: “Madamoiselle, Madamoiselle, make yourself tranquil! You will cease at once. Mees Woodhull! Mees Stetson, Mees—Mees.”