De Lamourie’s face lightened.
“Thou art better, little one,” said he. “But why go alone at such a time? Where’s George?”
But Yvonne was already at her mother’s side, kissing her, and did not answer her father’s question; which, indeed, needed no answer, as he had himself seen Anderson go into the inner room and not return.
“But where will you go, child?” queried her mother. “There are no longer any left of your sick and your poor and your husbandless to visit.”
“But I will be my own sick, little mamma,” she cried nervously, “and my own poor—and my own husbandless. I will visit myself. Don’t be troubled for me, dearies!” she added, in a tender voice. “I am so much better already.”
The next moment she was gone. The door shut loudly after her.
“Wilful!” said her mother.
“Yes, more like she used to be. Much better!” exclaimed Giles de Lamourie, rising and looking out at the fires in a moment of brief absent-mindedness. “Yes, much better, George,” he added, as Anderson appeared from the inner room.
But the Englishman’s face was full of discomfort. “I wish she would not go running out alone this way,” said he.
“Curious that she should prefer to be alone, George,” said Madame de Lamourie, with deliberate malice. She was beginning to dislike this man who so palpably could not give her daughter happiness.