"Permission?—To see Carette? No, madame—ma'm'zelle. I never dreamt of such a thing. Permission to see Carette! Ma fé!"
"Ah!" ... ("What a strangely innocent young man!—or is it impudent boldness?"—That was what was going on in her mind, I think, as she bored at me with the little gimlets. But she said—) "We make it an inflexible rule not to allow our young ladies to see any but their own relations, except, of course, with the special permission of their relatives or guardians."
"If I had known, I would have got a letter from Aunt Jeanne Falla, but such a thing never entered into my head for a moment."
"You know Madame Le Marchant—Miss Jeanne Falla that was?"
"Know Aunt Jeanne?—Well, I should—I mean, yes, madame,—I mean ma'm'zelle. She has known me from the day I was born."
"Ah!... And you think she would have accorded you permission to see mademoiselle?"
"Why, of course she would. She would never dream of me being in Peter Port without calling to see Carette."
She looked me through and through again, and said at last—
"If you will excuse me for a moment, I will consult with my sisters. It is a matter which concerns them also, and I should wish them to share the responsibility," and she dropped me another frigid little salute and backed out of the door.
And I felt very sorry for Carette, and did not wonder so much now at the little stiffnesses of manner I had noticed in her the last time we met.