“The poor angel,” said Antoinette. “But will she not join Monsieur at dinner?”
“I think not,” said I, dryly.
“But the young ducklings that are roasting for the dinner of Monsieur?”
“If they were not roasting they might be growing up into ducks,” said I.
“Oh, la, la!” murmured Antoinette, below her breath.
“Carlotta,” said I, turning to the girl who had seated herself humbly on a straight-backed chair, “you will go with Antoinette and do as she tells you. She doesn’t talk English, but she is used to making people understand her.”
“Mais, moi parley Francais un peu,” said Carlotta.
“Then you will win Antoinette’s heart, and she will lend you her finest. Good-night,” said I, abruptly. “I hope you will have a pleasant rest.”
She took my outstretched hand, and, to my great embarrassment, raised it to her lips. Antoinette looked on, with a sentimental moisture in her eyes.
“The poor angel,” she repeated.