“I want to talk to you. I want to give you some good advice. Sit down on that step,” he demanded.
Massawippa settled down, and rested her chin on her dark soft knuckles. Sparks of amusement burned in the deeps of her eyes. Accustomed to having men of inferior rank around her, she was satisfied that he kept his distance and sat three steps below her, literally beneath her feet. Her beaver gown cased her in rich creases.
Seeing her thus plastic, Jouaneaux’s severity ran off his cheeks in a smile. He forgot her abuse of the privilege he had stolen for her. His genial nose tilted up, and as overture to his good advice, showing all his gums, he whispered:
“What a pretty little Sister of St. Joseph you will make!”
Massawippa stirred, and with her dull-red blanket arranged a rest for her head against the balustrade.
“What do you think of me?” he inquired.
After reticent pause of a length to embarrass a modest questioner, Massawippa admitted:
“You are not so black and oily as La Mouche.”
“Who is La Mouche?”