Her black head drooped to his shoulder. “What is it?” she said feebly.
“I have good reason to believe that your father is not the villain he is supposed to be.”
“Is not,” she repeated keenly. “Is he not dead?”
“No,” quietly; “I do not think so.”
She made a bewildered gesture. “I am surprised at nothing now; but why do you say this?”
“I think I would have heard of it if he had died.”
The girl was too excited to sit still. She sprang up again and moved restlessly about him. “You understand him,” she said; “ah, why have you not talked to me of him before?”
“You have never asked me to do so.”
She stopped short, measured him with a quick, comprehensive glance, then resumed her restless movements. She could not understand him; it was useless to try to do so. “You liked my father,” she said impulsively.
“Yes; as a lad my father and Étienne Delavigne were my ideals; your father was very patient and kind to me. He gave me my first instruction in business principles.”