I did not intend my voice to falter, but it did, more, I think, through the agitation of late delight than in any spasm of present fear. Still there certainly was something in M. Paul’s anger⁠—a kind of passion of emotion⁠—that specially tended to draw tears. I was not unhappy, nor much afraid, yet I wept.

“ Allons, allons! ” said he presently, looking round and seeing the deluge universal. “Decidedly I am a monster and a ruffian. I have only one pocket-handkerchief,” he added, “but if I had twenty, I would offer you each one. Your teacher shall be your representative. Here, Miss Lucy.”