I could not believe my ears to hear such language from the shabby, meek-looking little man. Madame stood straight and still for a moment, then bowed her head.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Montero,” she said with the dignity of sincerity. “And yours also, Chevalier Camille.”
He turned to me again. “Lola, what comes over you, to cause you to stiffen in that way?”
“I get ashamed and want to run and hide.”
“Of what are you ashamed, my dear? Can you tell me?”
I could not tell him if I tried. By not trying—by opening my heart to him—the words spoke themselves.
“I’m ashamed of being a show-off.”
“Ah! Did someone used to call you one? Someone jealous of you?”
“Yes. Of course. My mother did. Every time I skipped and danced in front of people.”
“Is your mother alive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love her?
