“Ill? Dangerously ill?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Mon Dieu,” said he, sitting down again in the oak settle. To Aristide the emotion of the moment was absorbing, overwhelming. His attitude betokened deepest misery and dejection.
“And I expected to see him full of joy and health!”
“It is not my fault, Mr. Pujol,” said Miss Anne.
He started. “But no. How could it be? You loved him when you first set eyes on him at Aix-en-Provence.”
Miss Anne began to cry. “God knows,” said she, “what I should do without him. The dear mite is all that is left to me.”
“All? But there is your sister, the dear Miss Janet.”
Miss Anne’s eyes were hidden in her handkerchief. “My poor sister died last year, Mr. Pujol.”
“I am very sorry. I did not know,” said Aristide gently.