“Nothing.”
“I’m your little sister, and you’re not willing to tell me your worries. Who knows if I might not be of some use to you?”
To account for his air of worry, which he could not deny, he fell back again on his pretended need of money, the story that he had just been telling in various forms. The girl stopped him at once.
“Wait a moment,” she said.
She disappeared, and came back a little later triumphantly, placing in front of him a fine blue bill for one thousand francs.
“Is that enough? Father gave me three of them for my trousseau, and luckily this one’s left.”
“You are mad, Margaret. I don’t want it.”
“Yes, yes, take it. I shall be so glad. A few bits of linen more or less will scarcely make me feel poor.”
She laughed, and he, his nerves all strung, felt the tears gather at the edge of his eyes. By a great effort he succeeded in controlling himself, and rested content with drawing the girl to his heart—a heart which, after all, did not belong entirely to Mrs. Frasne.
“Love me always,” he murmured, “whatever happens.”