"Pardon me," he said, with an involuntary bow; "I thought everyone had gone. What is it that I can do for you?"
There was no embarrassment except that of modesty as she curtseyed before him. She might have been a young duchess by the frankness with which she met his look.
"I come from Marie Rondeau," she said, "who has sprained her foot and cannot walk. Mr. Bashley said she might send for the money due to her if she was still lame."
"Your name then is—" he inquired, pausing for her to fill up the question by her answer.
"Sara Rondeau," she said simply; "it is for my aunt that I come. I live with my aunt."
"And Bashley, does he—did he—has he visited you to bring you money?" Already the lad felt a short jealous pang, but knew not what it was.
"He has been to measure our work, but not to bring money. My aunt comes here herself."
But Bashley had been there, and the image of this young girl had roused his sordid fancy. Is it a wonder that he soon began to hate his young master?
Antoine felt the warm blood in his face as he wrapped in a paper the few shillings that were due.
"Do not come again on such an errand," he said. "I will call and see if your aunt is better, and will, if necessary, bring some more money myself."