"I like you," he spoke out. "Don't you think my mother is pretty?"
I said I thought his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. He curled up his mouth corners and gave me a blue-eyed smile.
"My father is not pretty. But he is a gentleman of France."
"Where are they, Paul?"
He turned a look upon me without answering.
"Paul," I said brutally, "tell me where your father and mother are."
He was so far gone that my voice recalled him. He simply knew me as a voice and a presence that he liked.
"With poor old Ernestine," he answered.
"And where is poor old Ernestine?"
He began to shake as if struck with a chill. I drew the blanket closer.