"You must take my criticisms for what they are worth, M.Raoul.But my grandmother was a Frenchwoman, and that gives me a kind of--sympathy, shall we say?
Moreover, I know what I like." Dorothea, accustomed to regard her brother as a demigod, caught herself blushing for him.

She was angry with herself.

She caught M.Raoul's murmur, "Heaven distributes to us our talents, Monsieur," and was angry with him, understanding and deprecating the raillery beneath his perfectly correct attitude.

He kept this attitude to the end.

When the time came for parting, he bent over her hand and whispered again: "But it was kind of Mademoiselle not to report me." She heard.