"Oh, but I would like to see him,—Monsieur Florval."
"Florval? Charles, you mean."
"It is you who do not know what you are talking about; his name is Charles Florval."
"Ask Nourrice; she knows."
"She used to nurse him; he was the apple of her eye, poor wretch!" one whispered, pointing to Nourrice.
"I remember him well. Such a temper! a perfect little devil! but Nourrice could always manage him."
A late comer, a very late comer, ascended the stairs, and they all stood up to let him pass. He walked as if hurrying from a danger, his large blond face exhibiting the nervous panic of a bashful man,—a panic not assuaged by the coolly critical eyes that scanned him up the long way,—eyes that were pitiless to anything like a social infirmity.
"But who is he?"
"Pas connais li."
"Not one of us, sure," meaning creoles.
"An American from up-town."
"Some rich American," corrected another.
