"But he does not come! Perhaps he is afraid"—the young man's brows and shoulders rose expressively—"but certainly he does not risk himself. If a servant is ill we are to tell a soldier and the sick one will be taken away to the house of plague—bien simple. It is so hard that I am helpless for you," he said, with sympathetic concern, then added, with an air of boyish confession, "although I do not deny that it is happiness for me to see you here."
The look in his eyes forced itself upon her. And the secret sense of discomfort intruded like a third presence at the little table.
In a clear voice of dry indifference: "That's very polite of you," she remarked, "but I imagine you are pretty furious, too, to be kept pent up in somebody else's house like this."
"But this is not somebody else's house," he smiled, his eyes observant of her quick glance and look of confusion. "I am chez moi."
"Oh! I thought—I was visiting your sister."
"My sister lives with me. She is a widow—and we are both alone."
"She does not seem to care for company."
"She is indisposed. She regrets it exceedingly." The young man looked grave and solicitous. "But I trust your comfort is not being neglected?"
"Oh, my comfort is being beautifully attended to, thank you, but my patience is wearing itself out!" Arlee spoke with a blithe assumption of humor.
"I wish that I could extend the resources of my palace for you."