“It is a gentleman,” she announced, “who does not give his name.”
Juliette de Gemosac was standing at the far side of the table, with the lamp throwing its full light upon her. She was dressed in white, with a blue ribbon at her waist and wrists. Another ribbon of the same colour tied back her hair, which was of a bright brown, with curls that caught the light in a score of tendrils above her ears. No finished coquette could have planned a prettier surprise than that which awaited Loo Barebone, as he made Marie stand aside, and came, hat in hand, into the room.
He paused for an instant, breathless, before Juliette, who stood, with a little smile of composed surprise parting her lips. This child, fresh from the quiet of a convent-school, was in no wise taken aback nor at a loss how to act. She did not speak, but stood with head erect, not ungracious, looking at him with clear brown eyes, awaiting his explanation. And Loo Barebone, all untaught, who had never spoken to a French lady in his life, came forward with an assurance and a readiness which must have lain dormant in his blood, awaiting the magic of this moment.
“Since my name would convey nothing to Mademoiselle,” he said, with a bow which he had assuredly not learnt in Farlingford, “it was useless to mention it. But it is at the disposal of Mademoiselle, nevertheless. It is an English name—Barebone. I am the Englishman who has been fortunate enough to engage the interest of your father, who journeyed to England to find me—and found me.”
He broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to show himself, as it were, and ask indulgence.
“I have a heritage, it appears, in France,” he went on, “but know nothing of it, yet. For the weather has been bad and our voyage a stormy one. I was to have been told during the journey, but we had no time for that. And I know no more than you, mademoiselle.”
Juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of a most delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. She did not touch upon the knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its object.
“You do not speak like an Englishman,” she said. “For I know one or two. One came to the school at Saintes. He was a famous English prelate, and he had the manner—well, of a tree. And when he spoke, it was what one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. But you—you are not like that.”
Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious, though Marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway.
“Yes,” he said, “you have described them exactly. I know a hundred who are like great trees. Many are so, but they are kind and still like trees—the English, when you know them, mademoiselle.”