‘He is less trustful than we are,’ she answered naively. ‘It is natural that he should be. He has seen more of the world.’
That silenced me for a moment, but she did not seem to notice it.
‘I was looking for him a little while ago, and I could not find him,’ I said, after a pause.
‘He has been into the village,’ she answered.
I longed to pursue the matter further; but though she seemed to entertain no suspicion of me, I dared not run the risk. I tried her, instead, on another tack.
‘Mademoiselle de Cocheforet does not seem very well to-day?’ I said.
‘No?’ she answered carelessly. ‘Well, now you speak of it, I do not think that she is. She is often anxious about—one we love.’
She uttered the last words with a little hesitation, and looked at me quickly when she had spoken them. We were sitting at the moment on a stone seat which had the wall of the house for a back; and, fortunately, I was toying with the branch of a creeping plant that hung over it, so that she could not see more than the side of my face. For I knew that it altered. Over my voice, however, I had more control, and I hastened to answer, ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ as innocently as possible.
‘He is at Bosost, in Spain. You knew that, I conclude?’ she said, with a certain sharpness. And she looked me in the face again very directly.
‘Yes,’ I answered, beginning to tremble.