“I did not reply—I have not time,” said Reine with dignity, “to answer all the idle letters that come to me. People in England seem to think one has nothing to do but to write.”
“It is very true,” said the mother, “they are foolish, the English, on that point. Give me thy letter, chérie, and I will answer it for thee. I can think of no one who would be so good for Herbert. Probably he will never want a good friend so much as now.”
“Mamma!” cried Reine, changing from red to white, and from white to red in her dismay, “you are not going to invite Everard here?”
“Why not, my most dear? It is tout simple; unless thou hast something secret in thy heart against it, which I don’t know.”
“I have nothing secret in my heart,” cried Reine, her heart beating loudly, her eyes filling with tears; “but don’t do it—don’t do it; I don’t want him here.”
“Très-bien, my child,” said the mother calmly, “it was not for thee, but for thy brother. Is there anything against him?”
“No, no, no! There is nothing against him—nothing!”
“Then you are unreasonable, Reine,” said her mother; “but I will not go against you, my child. You are excited—the tears come to you in the eyes; you are not well—you have been too much alone, ma petite Reine.”
“No, no; I am quite well—I am not excited!” cried the girl.
Madame de Mirfleur kissed her, and smoothed her hair, and bid her put on her hat and come out.