The Professor watched her with some pride. For in the quiet of Rousillon Claire had quickly recovered her peace of mind, and with it the light in the eye and the rose-flush on the cheek.
But quite suddenly she put her hands to her face and began to sob.
If it had been the Abbé John, he might have divined the reason, but the Professor was not a man advised upon such matters.
"What is it?" he said, stupidly enough; "are you ill?"
"Oh, no—no!" sobbed Claire; "it is so good to be here. It is so peaceful. You are so good to me—too good—your mother—your brothers—what have I done to deserve it?"
"Very likely nothing," said the Professor, meaning to be consoling; "I have always noticed that those who deserve least, are commonly best served!"
"That is not at all a nice thing to say," cried Claire; "they did not teach you polite speeches at your school—or else you have forgotten them at your dull old Sorbonne. Do you call that eloquence?"
"I only profess eloquence," said Doctor Anatole, with due meekness; "it is not required by any statute that I should also practise it!"
"Well," said Claire, "I can do without your sweet speeches. I cannot expect a Sorbonnist to have the sugared comfits of a king's mignon!"
"Who speaks so loud of sugared comfits?" said a voice from the other side of the weather-stained rock, beneath which the Professor and Claire Agnew were sitting looking out over the sea.