Meantime he stood
first on one foot, then the other, gnawing his thumb-nail and
blinking rapidly.
"Well, Helm, just look here!"
"What?"
"Manon Lescaut."
"And what's that?"
"Haven't you ever read it?"
"Read what?"
"This novel--Manon Lescaut."
"Never read a novel in my life. Never expect to."
Hamilton laughed freely at Helm's expense, then turned to Jean and
gave him back the book.
It would have been quite military, had he taken the precaution to
examine between the pages for something hidden there, but he did
not.
"Go, give it to her," he said, "and tell her I send my
compliments, with great admiration of her taste in literature." He
motioned the soldier to show Jean to Alice. "It's a beastly French
story," he added, addressing Helm; "immoral enough to make a
pirate blush. That's the sort of girl Mademoiselle Roussillon is!"
"I don't care what kind of a book she reads," blurted Helm, "she's
a fine, pure, good girl. Everybody likes her. She's the good angel
of this miserable frog-hole of a town. You'd like her yourself, if
you'd straighten up and quit burning tow in your brain all the
time. You're always so furious about something that you never have
a chance to be just to yourself, or pleasant to anybody else."
Hamilton turned fiercely on Helm, but a glimpse of the Captain's
broad good-humored face heartily smiling, dispelled his anger.
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