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“A poor addle-pated fellow!” whimpered Daniel,
waving his arm apologetically.
“God forgive you, Daniel! ’T is a shameful game you
are playing; and I believed so much better of you—so very
much better.”
“Did you? Did you truly?” he cried eagerly, his eyes
shining with joy. “Then I’m in my right mind again.
You’ve but to ask.”
“Was it the truth what you said?”
“As the gospel, but—”
“You are sure? There is no mistake?”
Daniel smiled.
“Is—he there to-day?”
“Is he gone hunting?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes.”
“What manner”—Marie began after a short
pause—“what manner of woman is she, do you know?”
“Small, your ladyship, quite small, round and red as a
pippin, merry and prattling, laughing mouth and tongue
loose at both ends.”
“But what kind of people does she come from?”
“’T is now two years ago or two and a half since she
was the wife of a French valet de chambre, who fled the
country and deserted her, but she didn’t grieve long for him;
she joined her fate with an out-at-elbows harp-player, went
to Paris with him, and remained there and at Brussels,
until she returned here last Whitsun. In truth, she has a
natural good understanding and a pleasing manner,
except at times when she is tipsy. This is all the knowledge
I have.”
“Daniel!” she said and stopped uncertainly.
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