Tom's visits at Les Marches were few and far between.
Adèle had chanced to overhear a part of the conversation which took place between her father and cousin, after she had asked the former for a year's peaceful solitude.
Quoth Mr. Rougeant: "You will have to wait another year."
"Indeed!" said his nephew.
"Adèle says she wishes to think the matter over."
"Oh!" said Tom, biting his nails; with which operation he was very familiar—"a year will soon pass away."
"Yes," answered the uncle.
Adèle's business took her to another room, and she had too much good-breeding to stay and listen. Eavesdropping was not in her line. She laughed all to herself. Liberty was so sweet.
When she went out, she could listen with more than ordinary delight to the songs of the birds. Some were singing with everchanging variety, others were somewhat more laboriously endeavouring to imitate the whistle of the farmer-boys.