The man started violently as he bent his searching glance upon her.
"Ah mademoiselle, you are surely ill!" he exclaimed in a voice of alarm. "Pardon me that I have not before observed the fact. Why—why have you come to work if you are not well?"
Something in his look and tone brought the truant color back to her face in a crimson flood.
"Thank you, monsieur, but I am perfectly well."
Then, with a smile and her habitual frankness, she explained:
"I am only in suspense since, from monsieur's manner, I have inferred that something is wrong; that perhaps you may have disagreeable tidings for me."
It was now the gentleman's turn to change color and to look disturbed. Then he broke forth with characteristic impetuosity:
"Pardon—a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, if I have caused you one moment of anxiety or suffering! Yes, I have been thoughtless—I have been distrait, but not because I have any ill news to impart; but because I had decided to ask mademoiselle an important question this morning. Mademoiselle Heatherford, will you do me the honor—the supreme happiness—to become my wife?"