Irene was equally formal, though a smile at the corner
of her lips half betrayed a mischievous thought. They barely spoke
to each other, and at table Irene took no heed of him.
But with the others she talked as brightly as usual, managing, none
the less, to do full justice to the meal. Miss Derwent's vigour of
mind and body was not sustained on air, and she never affected a
delicate appetite. There was still something of the healthy
schoolgirl in her manner. Otway glanced at her once or twice, but
immediately averted his eyes--with a slight frown, as if the light
had dazzled him.
She was talking of Finland, and mentioned the name of her father's
man-servant, Thibaut. It entered several times into the narrative,
and always with an approving epithet, the excellent Thibaut, the
brave Thibaut.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Hannaford, presently, "do tell Mr. Otway the
story of Thibaut."
"Yes, do!" urged Olga.
Piers raised his eyes to the last speaker, and moved them timidly
towards Irene. She smiled, meeting his look with a sort of merry
satisfaction.
"Mr. Otway is occupied with serious thoughts," was her good-humoured
remark.
"I should much like to hear the story of Thibaut," said Piers,
bending forward a little.
"Would you? You shall--Thibaut Rossignol; delightful name, isn't
it? And one of the most delightful of men, though only a servant,
and the son of a village shopkeeper.
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