"Oh, no—"
"Oh, yes; let us reckon, shall we? M. Spiegel went to Paris for Saturday, Sunday, and Monday; Tuesday he came here to dinner with M. Dubuisson; Wednesday he came alone; Thursday he managed to swallow the confirmation luncheon, poor man; Friday he was here to dinner; and every day we have been rehearsing our play either before or after dinner, so that he has never been away from you."
"Yes, that's true," answered Jeanne reluctantly; "but if he has not been away from me, he has scarcely troubled about me at all."
"How do you mean?"
"How? Oh! it is simple enough! He has only troubled about you; he has talked to no one but you."
"To me?"
"Yes, to you—there! I may as well own it, Bijou; I am jealous—frightfully jealous."
"Jealous of whom? Of me?" asked Denyse, with a startled look.
Mademoiselle Dubuisson nodded, and then she proceeded to explain, whilst the tears rose to her eyes:
"You must forgive me for telling you this. I can see that I am causing you pain, but it is better, is it not, to tell the truth, than to let you suspect all kinds of wrong reasons? You are not angry with me?"