“You should have seen the beautiful flush upon her cheeks.”
“So I did.”
“And did you not admire it?”
“I happened to look into the kitchen yesterday,” returned M’lle Fanchette, passing her plate for some toast, “and I saw Bridget who had been over the hot stove all day, with just such a pair of red cheeks. Did I admire her?”
There was a momentary silence. All who had seen Helen, felt the injustice of the comparison.
“There is no accounting for tastes,” interrupted the landlady, somewhat indignantly. “If you had seen the tenderness with which she waits upon her father, who, poor man, seems quite incapable of taking care of himself, you would find that she has a heart as beautiful as her face. Her beauty is not her only attraction.”
“What does her father do?”
“That is more than I can tell. Helen says that he is an inventor, and that he has made some discovery which is going to make them rich.”
“After all,” thought M’lle Fanchette, “it may be well to notice her. But they are poor now?” she said aloud.
“Yes. They seem to have little baggage, and dress quite plainly. They cannot have much property.”