Part 29 (1/2)

”But thou art, it seems, more free to question some other people.”

”Oh, but that is different; and, Monsieur,” she said demurely, ”thou must not say thou and thee to me. Thy mother says it is not proper.”

He laughed. ”If I am thou for thee, were it not courteous to speak to thee in thy own tongue?”

She colored, remembering the lesson and her own shrewd guess at the lady's meaning, and how, as she was led to infer, to _tutoyer_, to say thou, inferred a certain degree of intimacy. ”It is not fitting here except among Friends.”

”And why not? In France we do it.”

”Yes, sometimes, I have so heard.” But to explain further was far from her intention. ”It sounds foolish here, in people who are not of Friends. I said so--”

”But are we not friends?”

”I said Friends with a big F, Monsieur.”

”I make my apologies,”--he laughed with a formal bow,--”but one easily catches habits of talk.”

”Indeed, I am in earnest, and thou must mend thy habits. Friend Marguerite Swanwick desires to be excused of the Vicomte de Courval,”

and, smiling, she swept the courtesy of reply to his bow as the autumn leaves fell from the gathered skirts.

”As long as thou art thou, it will be hard to obey,” he said, and she making no reply, they wandered homeward through level shafts of sunlight, while fluttering overhead on wings of red and gold, the cupids of the forest enjoyed the sport, and the young man murmured: ”Thou and thee,” dreaming of a walk with her in his own Normandy among the woodlands his boyhood knew.

”Thou art very silent,” she said at last.

”No, I am talking; but not to you--of you, perhaps.”

”Indeed,” and she ceased to express further desire to be enlightened, and fell to asking questions about irregular French verbs.

Just before they reached the house, Margaret said: ”I have often meant to ask thee to tell me what thou didst do in the city. Friend Schmidt said to mother that Stephen Girard could not say too much of thee. Tell me about it, please.”

”No,” he returned abruptly. ”It is a thing to forget, not to talk about.”

”How secretive thou art!” she said, pouting, ”and thou wilt never, never speak of France.” In an instant she knew she had been indiscreet as he returned:

”Nor ever shall. Certainly not now.”

”Not--not even to me?”

”No.” His mind was away in darker scenes.

Piqued and yet sorry, she returned, ”Thou art as abrupt as Daniel Offley.”

”Mademoiselle!”

”What have I said?”

”Daniel Offley is dead. I carried him into his own house to die, a brave man when few were brave.”

”I have had my lesson,” she said. There were tears in her eyes, a little break in her voice.

”And I, Pearl; and G.o.d was good to me.”