“Oh yes. The general owes his present position entirely to my father; otherwise he would now be in garrison in some obscure country town.”
“I only wish he were,” declared Dubard fervently. “He is jealous of our friendship. Did you notice how he glared at me while you were singing?”
“And yet at table you were such good friends,” she laughed.
“It is not polite to exhibit ill-feeling in a friend’s house, mademoiselle,” was his calm response. “Yet I admit that I entertain no greater affection for the fellow than you do.”
“But why should he object to our friendship?” she exclaimed. “If he were unmarried, and in love with me, it would of course be different.”
“No,” he said. “He hates me.”
“Why?”
Jules Dubard was silent, his dark eyes were fixed away across the moon-lit lawn.
“Why?” she repeated. “Tell me!”
“Well, he has cause to hate me—that’s all,” and he smiled mysteriously.