“Not so many as you imagine,” I protested.
“I don’t always understand what they mean,” and then with a quick lighting up of her expression—“You will interpret.”
“But you speak very excellent French,” I again objected.
“Ah, it wasn’t the language I meant,” was the reply that came from those grave parted lips.
Philibert at that moment approached and laid a finger on my shoulder. His words, however, were not addressed to me.
“Don’t you think,” he said lightly, “that such an absorbing tête-à-tête might be postponed to another day? It’s not very polite to your elders.”
I saw the poor girl quiver. I saw the slow flood of crimson mantle her face and forehead and flush to the tips of her ears. I saw her stare at my brother humbly, and then I watched her slink off at his side, like a great dog that he led by a chain and to whom he had given a whipping. The sight filled me with disgusting pain. I turned on my heel and joined Claire in her window.
“A pretty sight, isn’t it?” I spluttered.
“But, mon cher, she adores him.”