"Have you something to say to us?" asked Jean Thompson, frowning at her law-defying bonnet.
"Oui," replied the woman, shrinking to one side, and laying hold of one of the benches, "mo oulé di' tou' ç'ose"—I want to tell everything. "Miché Vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune"—the best man in the world; "mo pas capabe li fé tracas"—I cannot give him trouble. "Mo pas capabe, non; m'olé di' tous ç'ose." She attempted to fan herself, her face turned away from the attorney, and her eyes rested on the ground.
"Take a seat," said Doctor Varrillat, with some suddenness, starting from his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner of the bench. The ladies rose up; somebody had to stand; the two races could not both sit down at once—at least not in that public manner.
"Your salts," said the physician to his wife. She handed the vial. Madame Delphine stood up again.
"We will all go inside," said Madame Thompson, and they passed through the gate and up the walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, cool drawing-room.
Madame Thompson herself bade the quadroone be seated.
"Well?" said Jean Thompson, as the rest took chairs.
"C'est drole"—it's funny—said Madame Delphine, with a piteous effort to smile, "that nobody thought of it. It is so plain. You have only to look and see. I mean about Olive." She loosed a button in the front of her dress and passed her hand into her bosom. "And yet, Olive herself never thought of it. She does not know a word."
The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it to Jean Thompson.
"Ouala so popa" said Madame Delphine. "That is her father."