"Little one would think it, then."
"Pardon, if I intrude. I come to inquire after Mistress Travis' health."
Claude stood smiling upon the threshold, for he had overheard the last words of the quarrel. Deborah, her white face flushing a little, held out her hand. As he bent over it she said, in a much gentler tone than that which she had been using: "I am really well, only I have nerves. Charles, however, is using me very ill. He says that nerves are nonsense. Do you think so?"
"In my country, mademoiselle, they are considered serious. A lady who has them retires to her bed and expects all her friends to come and amuse her till she is better. Charles, you are heartless."
Deborah looked a little shocked at his first statement and his matter-of-fact tone when making it; but she said nothing. Presently Father St. Quentin appeared at the door. After stopping to extend a hearty greeting to de Mailly, he flung a Latin imperative at poor Charles, who obeyed it with the poorest possible grace, leaving the room alone to Deborah and the Count. Claude seated himself near her, and looked at her for a few seconds in silence, noting a difference in her general expression. She was too languid to be embarrassed by the pause, but, not caring to return the scrutiny, slightly turned her head and looked toward the windows.
"I owe Miss Travis an apology, do I not?"
She glanced towards him now in some surprise. "An apology? For what?"
"Nay, then I will not make it. I will only tell you that, as the preserver of a child's life, I must reverence your talent, on which, I confess, I had looked with ill-timed disapproval."
Deborah gazed at him thoughtfully. "I recollect now. You were displeased to think that I would poison a cat. I assure you it was the cat saved Sambo's life. Neither of them died."
"So Dr. Carroll told me. I have heard all that you did on that afternoon; and I, like the doctor, have not words to express my admiration."