“Aren’t you sorry to leave me?” cried Virtue Ann wildly. “You little cold, cold fish.”
“Why should I be sorry?” said Eugene, holding back his head; “you have been false to me.”
“False! oh, dear, now just hear him,” said Virtue Ann. “Well, you’ve got to let me kiss you anyway, you bad-hearted little thing;” and she stroked his black, glossy head, and pressed her lips to his forehead in a motherly way.
Eugene made a slight grimace, and drew himself away from her, while the sergeant looked on with an amused smile, and muttered, “I’d like to know what it is about that child that makes the women crazy. It must be out of sheer, clear contrariness, because he doesn’t like them, or else it’s his fascinating manners. He isn’t handsome—not a bit handsomer than I am; come on, young sir,” and he began to march down-stairs.
“Before we get in the street,” he said, pausing in the lobby, “give me your parole, sir, that you won’t try to escape.”
Eugene hesitated to give it.
“You couldn’t go far,” said the sergeant, “for I’d be sure to catch you.”
“Very well,” said the boy; “I yield to the inevitable. I will not try to escape until a letter comes from France.”
“All right, mussoo,” replied the sergeant; and he tramped on.
Eugene was hungry and tired and inwardly disheartened, though he kept a calm exterior, and he was well pleased to arrive in front of the sergeant’s house.