In due time, I know not how, the talk swung round again to lightness, for the Colonel loved a good story, and the priest had many which he told with wit in his quaint French accent. As he was rising to take his leave, Père Gibault put his hand on my head.
“I saw your Excellency's son in the church this morning,” he said.
Colonel Clark laughed and gave me a pinch.
“My dear sir,” he said, “the boy is old enough to be my father.”
The priest looked down at me with a puzzled expression in his brown eyes.
“I would I had him for my son,” said Colonel Clark, kindly; “but the lad is eleven, and I shall not be twenty-six until next November.”
“Your Excellency not twenty-six!” cried Father Gibault, in astonishment. “What will you be when you are thirty?”
The young Colonel's face clouded.
“God knows!” he said.
Father Gibault dropped his eyes and turned to me with native tact.