Even in his moments of crisis, in
his hours of real tragedy, in the times when he was shaken to the centre,
Jean Jacques fancied himself more than a little. It was as the master-
carpenter had remarked seven years before, he was always involuntarily
saying, "Here I come--look at me. I am Jean Jacques Barbille!"
When Zoe reached out a hand to touch his arm, and raised her face as
though to kiss him good-night, Jean Jacques drew back.
"Not yet, Zoe," he said. "There are some things--What is all this
between you and that man? . . . I have seen. You must not forget
who you are--the daughter of Jean Jacques Barbille, of the Manor Cartier,
whose name is known in the whole province, who was asked to stand for the
legislature. You are Zoe Barbille--Mademoiselle Zoe Barbille. We do not
put on airs. We are kind to our neighbours, but I am descended from the
Baron of Beaugard. I have a place--yes, a place in society; and it is
for you to respect it. You comprehend?"
Zoe flushed, but there was no hesitation whatever in her reply.
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