"There," he said pleasantly, and in his best French, "you can look out of the window or read, as you please. I hope you will not find the time long."
She smiled in reply. Her penetrating eyes sought that other self within him, which leaped to the call and looked out of his eyes into hers. For a moment only. His gaze dropped. Wondering, he found himself trembling.
"I—I shall look in in an hour, to see if you want anything."
"Monsieur is very good," murmured Berthe. They were not far apart; her hand touched his. She looked downward.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly.
She watched him crossing the square toward the Seminary. There was a half smile upon her lips. "He is adorable," she murmured again. "Ah! I thought so," as Leonard, now some hundred yards away, looked back.
When he had disappeared she lazily inspected her surroundings, noting the various objects with faint interest. "Son père," she muttered as her glance fell upon the portrait of Professor Jared Claghorn. But she examined more minutely that of his mother. "Belle femme," was her comment, and though her eyes wandered from the picture, they often returned to it, verifying the close resemblance between it and the occupant of the room. "Ah-h!" she exclaimed, throwing up her arms, and then letting them fall listlessly, "Qu'il est beau!"
Then she tried to doze, but without much success, twitching nervously and occasionally muttering impatiently; and, at length, she rose from her chair and began to deliberately inspect the various objects lying on table or mantel. Everything that was purely ornamental she scrutinized with care, as though she would read the reason of its being where she found it. There was a peculiar expression of veiled anger in her eyes while thus engaged, and once the veil was momentarily lifted and anger was visible. Nevertheless, she laughed a moment after and replaced the object, an ivory paper cutter, where she had found it. "T'es bête," she muttered.
But soon her dark eyes flashed actual rage. She had taken a prettily bound book of poems from the table, where it had been thrown, as if but recently read. She turned the pages, half carelessly, yet with a sharp eye, to see if there were any marked passages. She found one or two such, and it would have been diverting, had there been a spectator present, to note her perplexed attempts to read Mrs. Browning. But the language was beyond her powers, and she was about impatiently to replace the book when she noticed the fly-leaf, whereon in a neat, clear hand was written the inscription, "Leonard, from Paula." She stared at these innocent words with a glare that under no circumstances could have been regarded as amusing. Finally, she tore the leaf from the book and flung the book itself disdainfully from her. Then she crumpled the leaf in her hand, threw it into the waste basket, and deliberately spat upon it.
Which strange proceeding perhaps soothed her irritation, for she lay back in her chair, and after breathing hard for a little while, was soon sleeping peacefully.