“Well, my uncle and his men will fight; we’ll all fight,” Elise retorted, her hands grasping the arms of the rocking-chair she sat in.
“But why shouldn’t we avoid fighting? What is there to fight for? You are all very happy here. You were very happy here before Monsieur Valmond came. Are you happy now?”
Madame Chalice’s eyes searched the flushed face anxiously. She was growing more eager every moment to serve, if she could, this splendid creature.
“We would die for him!” answered the girl quickly.
“You would die for him,” came the reply, slowly, meaningly.
“And what’s it to you, if I would?” came the sharp retort. “Why do you fine folk meddle yourselves with poor folk’s affairs?”
Then, remembering she was a hostess, with the instinctive courtesy of her race, she said: “Ah, pardon, madame; you meant nothing, I’m sure.”
“Why should fine folk make poor folk unhappy?” said Madame Chalice, quietly and sorrowfully, for she saw that Elise was suffering, and all the woman in her came to her heart and lips. She laid her hand on the girl’s arm. “Indeed yes, why should fine folk make poor folk unhappy? It is not I alone who makes you unhappy, Elise.”
The girl angrily shook off the hand, for she read the true significance of the words.
“What are you trying to find out?” she asked fiercely. “What do you want to do? Did I ever come in your way? Why do you come into mine? What’s my life to you? Nothing, nothing at all. You’re here to-day and away to-morrow. You’re English; you’re not of us. Can’t you see that I want to be left alone?