"Monsieur," said she pouting, "I pray for all,—the good Christian and the heretic alike."
Her face was very pretty, almost beautiful, indeed; rather pale, perhaps, but there was a girlishness, a pure innocence of expression in her soft dove-like hazel eyes, which made her extremely attractive. She seemed somewhere about sixteen,—a mature age on the Continent,—and had all the air of a lively French girl turned prematurely into a nun.
"I am extremely fortunate that you should interest yourself so much about me, mademoiselle," said Ronald in a tone sufficiently doleful, although he attempted to assume a gallant air. "But will you please to tell me where I am just now?"
"In Brussels, monsieur."
"Brussels? Good."
"See," continued the fair girl, drawing back the curtains; "there is the gay Sablon-square, and yonder the good old church of holy Saint Gudule, with its two huge towers and beautiful window."
"And this splendid house?"
"Belongs to the widow of Mynheer Vandergroot."
"And you, my pretty mademoiselle,—pray who are you?"
"You must not call me mademoiselle," said she demurely.