For an instant the look that had possessed the boy's face during the journey—the look of suspicion akin to fear—leaped up, but on the moment it was conquered. The well-poised head was thrown back, and again the eyes met Blake's in a deliberate gaze.
"Why do you ask, monsieur?"
The words were clipped, the tone proud and a little cold.
Another man might have hesitated to reply truthfully, but Blake was an Irishman and used to self-expression.
"I ask," he said, simply, "because you are so young."
A new expression—a new daring—swept the boy's mobile face. A spirit of raillery gleamed in his eyes, and he smiled for the first time.
"How old, monsieur?"
The question, the smile touched Blake anew. He laughed involuntarily with a sudden sense of friendliness.
"Sixteen?—seventeen?"
The boy, still smiling, shook his head.