"I also. That does make a difference."
Schmidt went away thoughtful. The next afternoon, feeling the moist heat, the vicomtesse went to Darthea at Merion. The two men fenced as usual, while mother and daughter sat in shadow on the porch, and a faint, cool air came up from the river.
"Ach, du lieber Himmel! but it is hot!" cried the German, casting down his foil. "You are doing better. Let us go and cool off in the river. Come."
They went down the garden, picking the ripe plums as they went. "What is wrong with you, René? You promised me."
"It is the heat. Miss Margaret looks ill. No one could endure it, and in the counting-house it is dreadful, and with no work to distract me."
"The Pearl goes again to Gray Court to-morrow," said the German.
"Indeed."
"Yes. I shall miss her, but it is as well. And, you, René—it is not the heat. Why do you put me off with such excuses?"
"Well, no. It is of course that villain," and he told of Girard and the invitation.
"René, a day will come when you will meet that man, and then the thing will somehow end. You cannot go on suffering as you are doing."