She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:
“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”
She was silent, seeking, groping.
“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learns nothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”
She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.
“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”
She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.
“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.
But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.
“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.