They were carrying on their conversation in French, for only with Vesper did Narcisse care to speak English. Perfectly aware, in his acute childish intelligence, that he was, for a time, entirely dependent on "madame," whom, up to this, he had been jealous of, and had positively disliked, he was keeping on her a watchful and roguish eye. Mrs. Nimmo, meanwhile, was interested and amused, but would make no overtures to him.
"Is your bed as soft as mine, madame?" he said, politely.
"I do not know; I never slept in that one."
Narcisse drew a corner of her silk coverlet over his feet. "Narcisse was very sick yesterday."
"I do not wonder," said his hostess.
"Your son said that he would return, but he did not."
"My son has other things to think of, little boy."
Mrs. Nimmo's manner was one that would have checked confidences in an ordinary child. It made Narcisse more eager to justify himself. "Why does my mother cry every night?" he asked, suddenly.
"How can I tell?" answered Mrs. Nimmo, peevishly.