to sleep, I submit to her choice;—grave, edifying books! Poetry, and history;—I do not care for them! I go to sleep easily in the evening, do I not, Marthe?' she said, taking Mademoiselle Ludérac by the arm and looking up at her cajolingly. 'But at eleven she is brave, resigned. I like my books spiced and salted! I am not afraid of our gros rire gaulois!'
It was all intended, Jill saw, as a pretty display for Graham.
A crushing blow was to fall upon her. Was it in malice, Jill wondered. Did Dick enjoy tormenting his poor old admirer? 'Nothing could be more opportune for my work, then,' he announced. 'I shall come to-morrow morning while Mademoiselle Ludérac reads spicy, salted books to you. You won't have to reproach me, so, with making your portrait dreary.'
The poor old lady, still holding Mademoiselle Ludérac by the arm, gazed at him with bodeful eyes. 'Dreary? Am I then so dreary?'
'Anything but—when you are allowed to be yourself. But when I forbid you to speak, and stare at you for half an hour on end without a word, I lose you;—I completely lose you,' said Graham, with an air of kindness, smiling down upon her.
'But it will disturb you, to have someone there reading. You do not like to be overlooked.'
'I shall ask Mademoiselle Ludérac to turn her back on us; like your cure. I shall not hear her reading. I shall be too much absorbed in you.'
