"Yes, so she is," answered the vicomte in the tone of one who speaks without thinking of what he is saying; and they continued their slow walk and their dreams of love. But the dew was falling, and they began to feel chilled.
"We had better go in now," said Jeanne.
They went into the drawing-room, and found Aunt Lison bending over the knitting she had taken up again; her thin fingers were trembling as if they were very tired. Jeanne went up to her.
"Aunt, we will go to bed now," she said.
The old maid raised her eyes; they were red as if she had been crying, but neither of the lovers noticed it. Suddenly the young man saw that Jeanne's thin slippers were quite wet, and fearing she would catch cold:
"Are not your dear little feet cold?" he asked affectionately.
Aunt Lison's fingers trembled so they could no longer hold the work; her ball of wool rolled across the floor, and, hiding her face in her hands, she began to sob convulsively. For a moment Jeanne and the vicomte stood looking at her in mute surprise, then Jeanne, feeling frightened, knelt down beside her, drew away her hands from her face, and asked in dismay:
"What is it, Aunt Lison? What is the matter with you?"
The poor, old maid, trembling all over, stammered out in a broken voice:
"When he asked you—'Are—are not your dear little feet—cold?'—I—I thought how no one had—had ever said anything like that to me."