“That beast!”
She pointed to the drunken figure of Ffolliott, where he slumbered amongst the bottles. “He shall have it back to-morrow—I hate him,” she said passionately; and she leaned against Noll and nestled close to him.
Babette leant over her and whispered to Noll:
“Leave her so. When the procession forms to start for the march to the Latin Quarter, I will take her with me,” she said. And she added gently: “I will watch over her as Betty has watched over me.”
She sighed sadly, and putting her elbow on the table and her chin in the pink palm of her hand, she got a-brooding.
Horace Malahide, in the midst of laughter that greeted a sally of Gaston Latour’s, turned to her. He leaned over to her, and looked into her eyes:
“Babette! serious! and here!”
A tear fell, and she let it fall unheeding.
Horace put his arm about her slender shoulders:
“What, Babette! Has Noll been preaching a sermon?”