dressmaker laid her own hand softly upon it. This gesture elicited no response, but after a little, still gazing at the boy, Florentine murmured, in words no one present was in a position to understand—
'Dieu de Dieu, qu'il est beau!'
'She won't speak nothing but French since she has been so bad—you can't get a natural word out of her,' Mrs. Bowerbank said.
'It used to be so pretty when she spoke English—and so very amusing,' Miss Pynsent ventured to announce, with a feeble attempt to brighten up the scene. 'I suppose she has forgotten it all.'
'She may well have forgotten it—she never gave her tongue much exercise. There was little enough trouble to keep her from chattering,' Mrs. Bowerbank rejoined, giving a twitch to the prisoner's counterpane. Miss Pynsent settled it a little on the other side and considered, in the same train, that this separation of language was indeed a mercy; for how could it ever come into her small companion's head that he was the offspring of a person who couldn't so much as say good morning to him? She felt, at the same time, that the scene might have been somewhat less painful if they had been able to communicate with the object of their compassion. As it was, they had too much the air of having been brought together simply to look at each other, and there was a grewsome awkwardness in that, considering the delicacy of Florentine's position. Not, indeed, that she looked much at her old comrade; it was as if she were conscious of Miss Pynsent's being there, and would have been glad to thank her for it—glad even to examine her for her own sake, and see what change, for her, too, the horrible
