She smiled at me—she was standing in the light that came from the house. M. Pigeonneau meanwhile, who had awaited his chance, advanced to Miss Ruck with his glass of syrup. “I’ve kept it for you, mademoiselle,” he said; “I’ve jealously guarded it. It’s very delicious!”
Miss Ruck looked at him and his syrup without making any motion to take the glass. “Well, I guess it’s sour,” she dropped with a small shake of her head.
M. Pigeonneau stood staring, his syrup in his hand; then he slowly turned away. He looked about at the rest of us as to appeal from Miss Ruck’s insensibility, and went to deposit his rejected tribute on a bench. “Won’t you give it to me?” asked Miss Church in faultless French. “J’adore le sirop, moi.”
M. Pigeonneau came back with alacrity and presented the glass with a very low bow. “I adore good manners.”
This incident caused me to look at Miss Church with quickened interest. She was not strikingly pretty, but in her charming irregular face was a light of ardour. Like her mother, though in a less degree, she was simply dressed.
“She wants to go to America, and her mother won’t let her”—Miss Sophy explained to me her friend’s situation.
“I’m very sorry—for America,” I responsively laughed.
“Well, I don’t want to say anything against your mother, but I think it’s shameful,” Miss Ruck pursued.
“Mamma has very good reasons. She’ll tell you them all.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t want to hear them,” said Miss Ruck. “You’ve got a right to your own country; every one has a right to their own country.”