I.
Madame de Bracieux was working for her poor people. She poked her thick, light, tortoise-shell crochet-needle into the ball of coarse wool, and putting that down on her lap, lifted her head and looked across at her great-nephew, Jean de Blaye.
"Jean," she said, "what are you gazing at that is so interesting? You stand there with your nose flattened against the window-pane, just exactly as you did when you were a little boy, and were so insufferable."
Jean de Blaye lifted his head abruptly. He had been leaning his forehead against the glass of the bay-window.
"I?" he answered, hesitating slightly. "Oh, nothing, aunt—nothing at all!"
"Nothing at all? Oh, well, I must say that you seem to be looking at nothing at all with a great deal of attention."
"Do not believe him, grandmamma!" said Madame de Rueille in her beautiful, grave, expressive voice; "he is hoping all the time to see a cab appear round the bend of the avenue."
"Is he expecting someone?" asked the marchioness.
"Oh, no!" explained M. de Rueille, laughing; "but a cab, even a Pont-sur-Loire cab, would remind him of Paris. Bertrade is teasing him."