Mrs. Vivian stared, still with her little fixed smile.
“I think we should have had bad weather.”
“Very likely,” said Bernard, laughing. “Nature would have grown jealous of our good-humor—of our tranquil happiness. And after all, here we are together again—that is, some of us. But I have only my own audacity to thank for it. I was quite free to believe that you were not at all pleased to see me re-appear—and it is only because I am not easy to discourage—am indeed probably a rather impudent fellow—that I have ventured to come here to-day.”
“I am very glad to see you re-appear, Mr. Longueville,” Mrs. Vivian declared with the accent of veracity.
“It was your daughter’s idea, then, running away from Blanquais?”
Mrs. Vivian lowered her eyes.
“We were obliged to go to Fontainebleau. We have but just come back. I thought of writing to you,” she softly added.
“Ah, what pleasure that would have given me!”
“I mean, to tell you where we were, and that we should have been so happy to see you.”
“I thank you for the intention. I suppose your daughter would n’t let you carry it out.”