“W’at?”
“Yes, what. There’s something up; what is it?”
The girl tried to put on surprise; but her eyes failed her again. She leaned on the rail and looked down, meanwhile trying softly to draw away up-stairs; but her friend held on to one hand and murmured:
“Just one question, dearie, just one. I’ll not ask another: I’ll die first. You’ll probably find me in articulo mortis when you come down-stairs. Just one question, lovie.”
“W’at it is?”
“It’s nothing but this; I ask for information.” The voice dropped to a whisper,—“Is he as handsome as his portrait?”
The victim rallied all her poor powers of face, and turned feebly upon the questioner:
“Po’trait? Who?” Her voice was low, and she glanced furtively at the nearest door. “I dawn’t awnstan you.” Her hand pulled softly for its freedom, and she turned to go, repeating, with averted face, “I dawn’t awnstan you ’t all.”
“Well, never mind then, dear, if you don’t understand,” responded the tease, with mock tenderness. “But, ma belle Créole—”
“Je suis Acadienne.”