of expression in his face was stamping it on my memory, and for the first
time its phlegmatic calm aroused in me a new emotion. I had hated it and
wondered at it before, and now in spite of myself it was giving me a
twinge of pity. For nature had intended it to be an expressive face,
sensitive and quick to mirror each perception and emotion. Was it pride
that had turned it into a mask, and drawn a curtain before the light that
burned within, or had the light burned out and left it merely cold and
unresponsive?

"The captain is thinking?" said Mademoiselle.

He smiled, and fixed her with his level glance.

"Indeed yes," he answered briskly. "It is a rudeness for which I can only
crave your pardon. Strange that I should have tasted your father's
hospitality so often and should still be a taciturn host."

Mademoiselle bit her lip.

"There is only one thing stranger," she said coldly.

"And that is--?" said my father, bending toward her attentively.

"That you should betray the last request of the man who once sheltered
you and trusted you, and showed you every kindness. Tell me, captain, is
it another display of artistic temperament, or simply a lack of
breeding?"

Her words seemed to fall lightly on my father. He took a pinch of snuff,
and waved his hand in an airy gesture of denial.