“Yass,” she said, very sadly and sweetly.
“Thanks! And if Claude and I become partners that will naturally bring him into our circle, as it were; see?”
The little madame looked up with a sudden austere exaltation of frame and intensity of face, but her companion rushed on with—“And I’m going to tell you, let the risk to me be what it may, that it may result in great unhappiness to Claude; for he loves your daughter, who, I know, you must think too good for him!”
Madame Beausoleil blushed as though she herself were Marguerite and Tarbox were Claude.
“Ah! love Marguerite! Naw, naw! He dawn’t love noboddie but hees papa! Hees papa tell me dat! Ah! naw, ’tis not so!”
Mr. Tarbox stopped still; and when Zoséphine saw they were in the shadow of the trees while all about them was brightened by the momentary Southern twilight, she, too, stopped, and he spoke.
“What brought Claude back here when by right he should have gone straight to the city? You might have guessed it when you saw him.” He paused to let her revolve the thought, and added in his own mind—“If you had disliked the idea, you’d ’a’ suspected him quick enough”—and was pleased. He spoke again. “But I didn’t stop with guessing.”
Zoséphine looked up to his face from the little foot that edgewise was writing nothings in the dust.
“No,” continued her companion: “I walked with him two evenings ago in this avenue, and right where we stand now, without his ever knowing it—then or now—he as good as told me. Yes, Josephine, he dares to love your beautiful and accomplished daughter! The thought may offend you, but—was I not right to tell you?”
She nodded and began to move slowly on, he following.