“Oh! merely to read them, and you yourself shall post them afterwards. It will cause a little delay; that is all.”
At this moment they went into church, and each of them, instead of reading the order of Mass, fell into her own train of thought.
“Dear, dear, how many sins are there in all that?” thought Mariette.
Rosalie, whose soul, brain, and heart were completely upset by reading the story, by this time regarded it as history, written for her rival. By dint of thinking of nothing else, like a child, she ended by believing that the Eastern Review was no doubt forwarded to Albert’s lady-love.
“Oh!” said she to herself, her head buried in her hands in the attitude of a person lost in prayer; “oh! how can I get my father to look through the list of people to whom the Review is sent?”
After breakfast she took a turn in the garden with her father, coaxing and cajoling him, and brought him to the kiosk.
“Do you suppose, my dear little papa, that our Review is ever read abroad?”
“It is but just started—”
“Well, I will wager that it is.”
“It is hardly possible.”