"Valentine will not marry," says one of two ladies who lean over the rail of the veranda above. "I wonder why."
The other fixes on her a meaning look, and she twitches her shoulders and pouts, seeing she has asked a foolish question, the answer to which would only put Valentine in a numerous class and do him no credit.
Such were the choice spirits of the family. Agricola had retired. Raoul was there; his pretty auburn head might have been seen about half-way up the steps, close to one well sprinkled with premature gray.
"No such thing!" exclaimed his companion.
(The conversation was entirely in Creole French.)
"I give you my sacred word of honor!" cried Raoul.
"That Honoré is having all his business carried on in English?" asked the incredulous Sylvestre. (Such was his name.)
"I swear--" replied Raoul, resorting to his favorite pledge--"on a stack of Bibles that high!"
"Ah-h-h-h, pf-f-f-f-f!"
This polite expression of unbelief was further emphasized by a spasmodic flirt of one hand, with the thumb pointed outward.