Bianca pushed away a French history book and became suddenly more interested.
"Why, mademoiselle?" she asked.
Mademoiselle Durand pursed up her lips.
"Because I fear that he will certainly be very unhappy. Enfin, he is very unhappy, so there is no more to be said."
"He did not look it when I saw him," observed Bianca, tranquilly.
Mademoiselle Durand glanced at her. Like Princess Montefiano, she was never quite sure how much might be concealed beneath Bianca's quiet manner. But, like most of her race, she was quick to seize a point in conversation and use it to advance her own argument.
"Of course he did not look it—when you saw him," she repeated, "or when he saw you," she added, significantly.
Bianca knitted her brows. "If he is unhappy," she said, "and I am very sorry he should be unhappy—I do not see how a person he does not know can make him less so."
"That," said Mademoiselle Durand, "all depends on who the person is. It is certainly very sad—poor young man!" and she sighed again.
"I suppose," Bianca said, thoughtfully, "that he is in love with somebody—somebody whom he cannot marry."