The house was quiet. His father and William had not yet come in, his mother and Emily seemed to have effaced themselves, and he knew that Leigh was taking an examination at school. It was very peaceful. The old, worn room had a certain shabby dignity, the company of books looked down at him, and through the open window he could see a snow-white lilac in full and splendid bloom. He halted his pen for a moment, and looked out at the sunshine that seemed to bathe the delicate blossoms in a shower of splendor.
He had utterly forgotten the sensation of the household, his brother’s wife, and he was taken unawares. The door behind him opened softly, he perceived the scent of violets, and Fanchon entered.
“Ma foi.” She stood looking at him, her head on one side. “I didn’t know you were here!”
Daniel laid down his pen. He had come to expect something new every time he saw her.
“Does that matter?” he asked, smiling, aware that she was dressed for the street and that she looked lovely, a dark, bewitching little creature with haunting eyes. “I don’t matter. Come in, do!”
She came, watching him, and put out her hand.
“Mais non! Let us be friends,” she said softly, with a kind of childish frankness.
“I thought we were friends already,” he retorted, touching the hand lightly and flushing in spite of himself.
She shook her head.
“Non, non, you don’t like me!”