"That Monsieur Batonnin, with his soft-spoken ways, always has something unkind to say," muttered Madame de Mirallon.
"And he smears honey on his words, to make them go down; that's the custom."
Adolphine had walked mechanically to the piano; she was suffering intensely, she would have liked to leave the salon, but she dared not, because it would have worried her father. To make her misery complete, Monsieur Batonnin joined her.
"Are we going to have the pleasure of hearing you sing, mademoiselle?"
"No, monsieur; I could not possibly sing; I have a very sore throat."
"I trust, mademoiselle, that you are not still offended with me because I thought that you looked ill?"
"Oh! not at all, monsieur; indeed, I think that you must have been right, for I don't feel very well this evening."
"Madame your sister is well enough for two, I judge, she is in such good spirits; she seems to be talking a good deal with that gentleman. Isn't he the same one who was with you one morning when I came to your room with your father?"
"Yes, monsieur; that is he."
"He was very dismal then; it seems that his gloom has disappeared, for he is laughing heartily with your sister. Are they acquainted?"