mademoiselle,” and he turned to depart towards the house.
“Shall I come with you, Philippe?” Andre-Louis called after him.
“It would be ungallant to assume that you would prefer it,” said M. de Vilmorin, with a glance at mademoiselle. “Nor do I think it would serve. If you will wait...”
M. de Vilmorin strode off. Mademoiselle, after a moment’s blank pause, laughed ripplingly. “Now where is he going in such a hurry?”
“To see M. de La Tour d’Azyr as well as your uncle, I should say.”
“But he cannot. They cannot see him. Did I not say that they are very closely engaged? You don’t ask me why, Andre.” There was an arch mysteriousness about her, a latent something that may have been elation or amusement, or perhaps both. Andre-Louis could not determine it.
“Since obviously you are all eagerness to tell, why should I ask?” quoth he.
“If you are caustic I shall not tell you even if you ask. Oh, yes, I will. It will teach you to treat me with the respect that is my due.”
“I hope I shall never fail in that.”
“Less than ever when you learn that I am very closely concerned in the visit of M. de La Tour d’Azyr. I am the object of this visit.” And she looked at him with sparkling eyes and lips parted in laughter.
“The rest, you would seem to imply, is obvious. But I am a dolt, if you please; for it is not obvious to me.”
“Why, stupid, he comes to ask my hand in marriage.”
“Good God!” said Andre-Louis, and stared at her, chapfallen.
She drew back from him a little with a frown and an upward tilt of her chin. “It surprises you?”
“It disgusts me,” said he, bluntly. “In fact, I don’t believe it. You are amusing yourself with me.”
For a moment she put aside her visible annoyance to remove his doubts. “I am quite serious, monsieur. There came a formal letter to my uncle this morning
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