“It was quite delicious, monsieur. I ate every bit of it.”
The boom of the lake intruded between their voices. Barbe’s black eyelashes flickered sensitively upon her cheeks, and Tonty, feeling that he looked too steadily at her, dropped his eyes to his folded arms.
“Monsieur de Tonty,” inquired Barbe, appealing to experience, “do you think sixteen years very young?”
“It is the most charming age in the world, mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur, I mean young for maturing one’s plan of life.”
“That depends upon the person,” replied Tonty. “At sixteen I was revolting against the tyranny which choked Italy. And I was an exile from my country before the age of twenty, mademoiselle.”
Barbe gazed straight at Tonty, her gray eyes firing like opals with enthusiasm.
“And my uncle La Salle at sixteen was already planning his discoveries. Monsieur, I also have my plans. Many missionaries must be needed among the Indians.”
“You do not propose going as a missionary among the Indians, mademoiselle?”
Barbe critically examined his smile. She evaded his query.