He waited, as if wishing me to give an opinion upon it unasked. Unasked, however, I was in no mood to do or say anything. If any concessions were to be made⁠—if any advances were demanded⁠—that was the affair of the very docile pupil of Père Silas, not mine. His eye settled upon me gently: there was mildness at the moment in its blue ray⁠—there was solicitude⁠—a shade of pathos; there were meanings composite and contrasted⁠—reproach melting into remorse. At the moment probably, he would have been glad to see something emotional in me. I could not show it. In another minute, however, I should have betrayed confusion, had I not bethought myself to take some quill-pens from my desk, and begin soberly to mend them.

I knew that action would give a turn to his mood. He never liked to see me mend pens; my knife was always dull-edged⁠—my hand, too, was unskilful; I hacked and chipped. On this occasion I cut my own finger⁠—half on purpose. I wanted to restore him to his natural state, to set him at his ease, to get him to chide.

“Maladroit!” he cried at last, “she will make mincemeat of her hands.”

He put Sylvie down, making her lie quiet beside his bonnet-grec , and, depriving me of the pens and penknife, proceeded to slice, nib, and point with the accuracy and celerity of a machine.

“Did I like the little book?” he now inquired.

Suppressing a yawn, I said I hardly knew.

“Had it moved me?”

“I thought it had made me a little sleepy.”

(After a pause:) “ Allons donc! It was of no use taking that tone with him. Bad as I was⁠—and he should be sorry to have to name all my faults at a breath⁠—God and nature had given me trop de sensibilité et de sympathie 229 not to be profoundly affected by an appeal so touching.”