M. Laroche looked at her with admiration.
"Mam'selle, vous êtes grande dame vous," he said, wondering at the pink flush and the thrown-back head.
She sank back, ashamed of such a display of feeling.
"I run on like a chatterbox of a girl," she said shyly. "You'll think I'm a selfish, talkative old thing, monsieur."
He bowed gallantly.
"Zat would never be, Mlle. Sabine," he said. "And your affairs, are zey not mine? But yes! Indeed!"
They sat quietly for a time, in the dusk, watching the evening star grow before them, enjoying the cool stillness and the scent of the freshly watered green. The young people strolling by now and then smiled at them for a contented pair of middle-aged friends, and thought their pleasant quiet the placid repose of those who have tacitly done with life and its strong tides of feeling.
