“Can’t ye speak to y’re ould fool of a cook, sir?” Mrs. Flynn said again, as the Seigneur made way for her to leave the shop.
“How did you guess?” he said to her in a low voice, his sharp eyes peering into hers.
“By the looks in y’re face these past weeks, and the look in hers,” she whispered, and went on her way rejoicing.
“I’ll wind thim both round me finger like a wisp o’ straw,” she said, going up the road with a light step, despite her weight, till she was stopped by the malicious grocer-man of the village, whose tongue had been wagging for hours upon an unwholesome theme.
Meanwhile, in the post-office, the Seigneur and Rosalie were face to face.
“It is Michaelmas day,” he said. “May I speak with you, Mademoiselle?”
She looked at the clock. It was on the stroke of noon. The shop always closed from twelve till half-past twelve.
“Will you step into the parlour, Monsieur?” she said, and coming round the counter, locked the shop-door. She was trembling and confused, and entered the little parlour shyly. Yet her eyes met the Seigneur’s bravely. “Your father, how is he?” he said, offering her a chair. The sunlight streaming in the window made a sort of pathway of light between them, while they were in the shade.
“He seems no worse, and to-day he is wheeling himself about.”
“He is stronger, then—that’s good. Is there any fear that he must go to the hospital again?”