"Polly," said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile, "do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new."
"I don 't blush—I never do blush," affirmed she, while another eddy from the heart sent up its scarlet. "But I thought you were in the dining-room, and I wanted Lucy."
"You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just been called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter for you; it will save Matthieu a 'course,' as he calls it."
"I don't post letters," said she, rather pettishly.
"What do you do with them, then?—come here and tell me."
Both her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second—to say "Shall I come?"—but she approached.
"How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seems yesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutely with both hands at the pen."
"Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag; they are only notes, which I give now and then into the person's hand, just to satisfy."
