Of a sudden the smile left Claude's face. He had not thought of this before. "There, Debby, is your room—on this side is mine. A maid whom Mme. de Mailly-Nesle has kindly lent you is waiting for you. Henri's valet is there—where I sleep. We do not occupy the same room. It—it is not the custom. Therefore sit here with me for a few moments, and tell me—how you like them all—my family?"
Deborah stared at him in bewilderment during the explanation; but, true to her nature, she accepted it without comment, permitting herself to be drawn down upon the little sofa where he sat, and passively leaving her hands in his.
"Tell me now—do you like them?"
Deborah hesitated. "What mistakes did I make?" she asked, finally.
"Not one, my Deborah, save that you were not insolent enough."
She smiled faintly. "I like Monsieur le Marquis."
"And he you! Yes, you must love him for my sake. He is more than my brother. And his wife?"
"Is she his wife, Claude? Why does he always call her madame? Why did you call me madame? And she treated him so—so formally."
"Parbleu! you are right; they do not know each other very well, else she could hardly help loving him; and she would not be so bourgeois as that! Do you like her? She was kinder to you, Debby, than I have ever seen her to any woman. Answer me—dost like her?"
"Yes—I liked her. She never looked at me when she spoke, and she scarcely spoke to any one else."