“Don’t you think of me, Nicette?”
“Oh! all the time! but that’s no reason why—why—I mean, it’s very different!”
“What were you doing when I came?”
“I was writing, monsieur—learning my lesson.”
She blushed as she said it. I glanced at the table and saw several sheets of paper covered with large letters—a name written again and again—and that name, mine! Poor Nicette!
I looked at her; she blushed even more, and stammered, lowering her eyes:
“I beg your pardon, monsieur, for taking your name for a copy; but I thought that my benefactor’s name ought to be the first thing that I wrote.”
I took her hands and pressed them.
“Really, Nicette, I do not deserve so much friendship—if you knew me better!”
“Oh! I know you well enough by all that you have done for me.”