I was at loss to explain my blundering ardor.
“Mademoiselle,” I stammered, feeling my face burn, “I had cause to think you were in need of assistance—I—pardon me, I do but increase my awkwardness.”
She looked at me strangely, a new emotion dyeing her cheek with scarlet.
“Monsieur is kind,” she said a little haughtily; “I am indebted to my uncle’s friend, I presume, monsieur—”
She paused, and her eyes sought mine with a keen interrogation. I stood erect; something in her tone stung me.
“I am not your uncle’s friend, Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky,” I said a little defiantly; “I am a stranger to him, a French gentleman, Philippe de Brousson.”
There was a startled cry from the farther side of the room, where the other woman had remained; she came across now, staring at me strangely.
“Philippe de Brousson!” she cried in a high French voice. “It is Philippe, little Philippe!”
It was my turn to stare in blank astonishment. She was a tall angular woman, with near-sighted eyes, and gray curls dancing on her temples. I did not know her, but it was evident that she recognized me with ecstasy. Zénaïde was looking at her with a reflection of my amazement.
“Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” she said warningly, “you are very short-sighted; you may have made another mistake.”