His face was whiter than before.
"Whose child was it ?" demanded Josephine, motioning to the garments he still held in his hands.

"Hers ?" He shook his head slowly.
"No." "Yours ?" "No." "Oh, well, I suppose it was some servant's--though the overseer, Jeanne says, lives across the fields, there.

And there would not be any negroes living here in the house, in any case ?" "No." "Was it--was it--yours ?" "I have no child.

There will never be any for me in the world--except--under--" But now the flush came back into his face.
Confused, he turned, and gently laid down the faded silks across a chair back, pulling it even with the one where lay Josephine's richer and more modern robes.

He looked at the two grimly, sadly, shook his head and walked out of the room.
"Madame!" exclaimed Jeanne, "it was divine! But, _quelle mystere_!".