“No; we speak but few words of French,” said the boy, and he looked as if another one of his fits of passion were about to come upon him. “We use your language in order that we may not be laughed at, as the boys laugh at me when I speak French.”
“How long have you been in this country?” asked the sergeant.
“Six months, Mr. Officer.”
“Then you’ve got a pretty remarkable hold of English for that time.”
“But I had an English nurse when I was a child, and an English tutor later on. It was the custom among the noblesse.”
“And what does your grandfather do?” asked the sergeant, coming back to his original question with true Yankee pertinacity.
“Pardon me, sir—I will tell you another day,” said the boy irritably. “The words stick in my throat. I have the honor to wish you good-morning;” and with another one of his sweeping bows, he swiftly and gracefully left the sergeant, and hurried after the two nurses and the little girl, who were making their way toward the wide expanse of meadows and shrub-planted slopes at the farther end of the Fens.
The sergeant stared after Eugene, and talked aloud to himself, as he had a habit of doing. “I don’t rightly make out that lad yet. We haven’t got any like him in this country. Haughty isn’t the word for him, and selfish doesn’t come anywhere near his looking out for number one; yet there’s something diverting about the little shaver, in spite of it all. He’s old-fashioned, like a child that’s been brought up with elderly people. I’ll look out for him. He’ll be coming here again,” and the sergeant smiled to himself as he went on his rounds through the park.