There were two doors to the room, one by which the landlady had made her exit, and another which led into the garden. This second door Stephanie now opened, and at the sound the boy raised his eyes. She beckoned to him, and he came forward. It may be that he had visions of more fruit and sugared biscuits.
Stephanie drew him a little way into the room, and going down on one knee, she passed an arm round his waist. It was evident that she was full of suppressed emotion. The conversation that ensued was carried on in French.
"Tell me your name, cheri."
"Henri Picot, mademoiselle."
She had known what the answer would be; but for a moment or two her lips blanched, while she murmured something the boy could not hear.
"And your father?" she said at last.
"He is here, indoors. Poor papa was tired; he is resting himself."
"Does your papa treat you kindly, Henri?"
The boy stared at her. "Papa always treats me kindly.--Why should he not?"
"And your mamma?" said Stephanie with bated breath.