"Yes," said Mr. Dennant, "very sudden."
"Now, Algie," murmured Mrs. Dennant, "it 's quite a charmin' letter.
Must have taken the poor young man an hour to write.""Oh, mother!" cried Antonia.
And Shelton felt his face go crimson. He had suddenly remembered that her French was better than her mother's.
"He seems to have had a singular experience," said the Connoisseur.
"Yes," echoed Mr. Dennant; "he 's had some singular experience. If you want to know the details, ask friend Shelton; it's quite romantic. In the meantime, my dear; another cup?"The Connoisseur, never quite devoid of absent-minded malice, spurred his curiosity to a further effort; and, turning his well-defended eyes on Shelton, murmured, "Well, Mr. Shelton, you are the historian, it seems.""There is no history," said Shelton, without looking up.
"Ah, that's very dull," remarked the Connoisseur.
"My dear ****," said Mrs. Dennant, "that was really a most touchin' story about his goin' without food in Paris."Shelton shot another look at Antonia; her face was frigid. "I hate your d---d superiority!" he thought, staring at the Connoisseur.
"There's nothing," said that gentleman, "more enthralling than starvation. Come, Mr Shelton.""I can't tell stories," said Shelton; "never could."He cared not a straw for Ferrand, his coming, going, or his history;for, looking at Antonia, his heart was heavy.