They are feverish, you see." "I will wait." "He won't be long.

He never takes much sleep.

What do you want to--" and then some sudden thought sent a flush of colour into her face and a quick enquiry into her eyes, and she stopped short and stood looking at me.
"It's this, Carette--" and then the door of the side room opened quietly and Jean Le Marchant came out, looking at us with much surprise.
He was very little changed since I had seen him last.

It was the same keen, handsome face, with its long white moustache and cold dark eyes, somewhat tired at the moment with their night duties.
"And this is-- ?" he asked suavely, as I bowed.
"It is Phil Carre, of Belfontaine, father," said Carette quickly.

"He has come to see you." "Very kind of Monsieur Carre.