"But, Joubert——"
"Not a word!"
"But I want to tell you——"
"Not a word!"
That was always Joubert's way—"Not a word."
"But I want to tell you!"
"Not a word!" And he jabbed the sponge in my mouth, for I was standing by this time in the bath.
I never could tell whether Joubert was joking or in earnest, so I said no more; but it was none the less irritating to be called a liar by Joubert, whose lies about battle, murder, and sudden death were palpable, and sometimes cynically self-confessed.
Little Carl did not appear at breakfast, and Eloise was very despondent, not about Carl, but about going away. She would not touch jam, and she made use sometimes, in a secretive manner, of a handkerchief, small enough, goodness knows, yet chiefly composed of lace.
"It is not the going away," said Eloise; "it is the parting from friends that makes going away so sad."