"You are better, Monsieur Duprèz, are you not?" she asked gently. "We saw Sigurd this morning; he came home last night. He is very, very sorry to have hurt you!"
"He need not apologize," said Duprèz cheerfully. "I am delighted he gave me this scar, otherwise I am confident he would have put out the eye of Phil-eep. And that would have been a misfortune! For what would the ladies in London say if le beau Errington returned to them with one eye! Mon Dieu! they would all be en desespoir!"
Thelma looked up. Philip was standing at some little distance with Olaf Güldmar and Lorimer, talking and laughing gaily. His cap was slightly pushed off his forehead, and the sun shone on his thick dark-chestnut curls; his features, warmly colored by the wind and sea, were lit up with mirth, and his even white teeth sparkled in an irresistible smile of fascinating good-humor. He was the beau-ideal of the best type of Englishman, in the full tide of youth, health and good spirits.
"I suppose he is a great favorite with all those beautiful ladies?" she asked very quietly.
Something of gentle resignation in her tone struck the Frenchman's sense of chivalry; had she been like any ordinary woman, bent on conquest, he would have taken a mischievous delight in inventing a long list of fair ones supposed to be deeply enamored of Errington's good looks,—but this girl's innocent inquiring face inspired him with quite a different sentiment.
"Mais certainement!" he said frankly and emphatically. "Phil-eep is a favorite everywhere! Yet not more so with women than with men. I love him extremely—he is a charming boy! Then you see, chère Mademoiselle, he is rich,—very rich,—and there are so many pretty girls who are very poor,—naturally they are enchanted with our Errington—voyez-vous?"
"I do not understand," she said, with a puzzled brow. "It is not possible that they should like him better because he is rich. He would be the same man without money as with it—it makes no difference!"
"Perhaps not to you," returned Duprèz, with a smile; "but to many it would make an immense difference! Chère Mademoiselle, it is a grand thing to have plenty of money,—believe me!"
Thelma shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps," she answered indifferently. "But one cannot spend much on one's self, after all. The nuns at Arles used to tell me that poverty was a virtue, and that to be very rich was to be very miserable. They were poor,—all those good women,—and they were always cheerful."
"The nuns! ah, mon Dieu!" cried Duprèz. "The darlings know not the taste of joy—they speak of what they cannot understand! How should they know what it is to be happy or unhappy, when they bar their great convent doors against the very name of love!"