“I am sorry they put you to the trouble of coming out here,” she said.
“Why, mademoiselle? Because I find you picking green beans?”
“No; not that. But one has one's pride. This is my garden. I keep it! Look at it!” And she waved her hand with a gesture of contempt.
De Vasselot looked gravely round him. Then, after a pause, he made a movement of the deepest despair.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he said, with a great sigh, “it is a wilderness.”
“And now you are laughing at me.”
“I, mademoiselle?” And he faced her tragic eyes.
“You think I am a woman.”
De Vasselot spread out his hands in deprecation, as if, this time, she had hit the mark.
“Yes,” he said slowly.