“Yes, he is always singing foolish French songs—and I’m sure you can’t understand ’em.”
“I’ve learnt the French ever since I was as old as you, Mistress Henriette.”
“Ah! that was too late to begin. People who learn French out of books know what it looks like, but not what it sounds like.”
“I should be very sorry if I could not understand a French ballad, little miss.”
“Would you—would you, really?” cried Papillon, her face alight with impish mirth. “Then, of course, you understand this—
Oh, la d’moiselle, comme elle est sot-te,
Eh, je me moque de sa sot-ti-se!
Eh, la d’moiselle, comme elle est bê-te,
Eh, je m’ris de sa bê-ti-se!”
She sang this impromptu nonsense prestissimo as she danced out of the room, leaving the accomplished Dorothy vexed and perplexed at not having understood a single word.
It was nearly an hour later when Denzil entered the saloon hurriedly, pale and perturbed of aspect, with Dorothy and her brother following him.
“We have been hunting all over the house for Mrs. Angela and Henriette,” Denzil said, and Fareham started up from the chess-table, scared at the young man’s agitated tone and pallid countenance. “We have looked in every room—”
“In every closet,” interrupted Dorothy.