"The fact," she said, "that she seriously thinks that perhaps
beauty may be an advantage to a young person who applies for work
in the office of a man of business because it may seem bright and
cheerful to him when he is tired and out of spirits--that gives one
furiously to think. Yes, to me she said it, milord--with the eyes
of a little dove brooding over her young. I could see her--lifting
them like an angel to some elderly vaurien, who would merely think
her a born cocotte."
Here Coombe's rigid face showed thought indeed.
"Good God!" he muttered, quite to himself, "Good God!" in a low,
breathless voice. Villain or saint, he knew not one world but
many.
"We must take care of her," he said next. "She is not an insubordinate
child. She will do nothing yet?"
"I have told her she is not yet ready," Mademoiselle Valle answered.
"I have also promised to tell her when she is--And to help her."
"God help her if we do not!" he said. "She is, on the whole, as
ignorant as a little sheep--and butchers are on the lookout for
such as she is. They suit them even better than the little things
whose tendencies are perverse from birth. An old man with an evil
character may be able to watch over her from a distance."
Mademoiselle regarded him with grave eyes, which took in his tall,
thin erectness of figure, his bearing, the perfection of his attire
with its unfailing freshness, which was not newness.
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