She stood by him, her hands resting on the table, trembling with pleasure, her face glowing.
"It is beautiful," she exclaimed. "I thought the word sounded very sweet. And—you—you want to be my friend?"
The most finished coquette might have envied the artless naïveté of her look and tone, yet she was
"Too innocent for coquetry,
Too fond for idle scorning."
Touched by this new side of her character, he put his hand impulsively on the little one resting close by his on the table with a gentle pressure.
"Child, I will be your friend if you will let me," he said, in a gentle tone, and not dreaming of all to which that promise was swiftly leading.
"I shall be so glad," she said, in a voice so humble, and with so tender a face, that the people in the other room would scarce have recognized her as the little savage and vixen they called her.
But Pierre Carmontelle, always full of mischief and banter, had deliberately sauntered in, and heard the compact of friendship between the two who, until to-night, had been utter strangers. He gave his friend a quizzical smile.
"Ever heard of Moore's 'Temple to Friendship,' Van Zandt?" he inquired, dryly. "Let me recall it to your mind."