“_Sapperli poppette!_” cried Zitli, laughing. “One moment, mademoiselle! One at a time, not so? My brother, he is altogether well. He is in the high Alps, hunting the chamois, in manner that he could not come with us to the fête. The animals? Figure to yourself that La Dumaine has a calf! the image of herself, white as the moon, altogether beautiful. Mademoiselle, we have taken the liberty--my sister thought you would not object--briefly, we have named her La Moriole.”
“_No!_ you haven’t! Oh, Zitli, how perfectly _darling_ of you! Oh, I am so delighted! Oh, how I should like to see her!”
“For example! We are hoping, my sister and I--my brother also, if he were not absent--that mademoiselle will soon do us the honor to visit the Châlet again, to see her namesake, and--”
He stopped short, seeing Honor’s face change.
“Zitli,” she cried, “I shall never see the Châlet again! never, never, never! I am going away, across the ocean, to America. My heart is broken, so I shall not live long, do you see? I am glad of that, of course, because I have to be cheerful, and that is not easy with a broken heart--Zitli! you are laughing at me!”
A quick flush swept over Honor’s face. Zitli, instantly responsive, seized her hand.
“Forgive me, mademoiselle! I implore your forgiveness!” he cried. “I was not laughing, only smiling. Mademoiselle looks so--in fine, so other than heart-broken.”
“Looks mean little!” Honor was really hurt. She had thought Zitli would understand. She longed to quote to him the lines which seemed so appropriate to her condition:
“When hollow hearts shall wear a mask ’Twill break thine own to see, In such a moment I but ask That you’ll remember me!”
Patricia laughed at them, and said they made neither sense nor poetry, but Maria thought them lovely.
“Looks mean little!” she repeated. “I thought you would understand, Zitli!”
“Dear mademoiselle, I do understand, indeed I do. It grieves me to the heart that you must go, and that you are unhappy. Only--to cross the ocean! To see that great wonderful country of America--ah! _sapperli!_ Think how many would give all they possess for a chance!”
“But--but to leave Switzerland, Zitli! You couldn’t bear it yourself?”
“My faith, mademoiselle, I do not know. Not, of course, unless I was sure, sure, of returning to my own country. But it appears to me that America is _your_ own country, Mademoiselle Honor. One has--forgive me, but you have said we are friends--one has a duty to that, not so?”