"Oh," with a vexed crease in her forehead, "I told you once before not to talk of this—the day we were all out in the boat, you remember. And if you go on I shall hate you; yes, I shall."
"I shall go on," said the persistent fellow. "Not very often, perhaps, but I thought if you were one of the maids at Marie's wedding and I could wait on you—"
"I shall not be one of the maids." She rose and stamped her foot on the ground. "Your mother does not like me any more. She never asks me to come in to tea. She thinks the school wicked. And you must marry to please her, as Marie is doing. So it will not be me;" she declared with emphasis.
"Oh, I know. That Louis Marsac will come back and you will marry him."
The boy's eyes flamed with jealousy and his whole face gloomed over with cruelty. "And then I shall kill him. I couldn't stand it," he continued.
"I hate Louis Marsac! I hate you, Pierre De Ber!" she cried vehemently.
The boy fell at her feet and kissed the hem of her frock, for she snatched away her hands.
"No, don't hate me. I'm glad to have you hate him."
"Get up, or I shall kick you," she said viciously.
"O Jeanne, don't be angry! I'll wait and wait. I thought you had forgotten, or changed somehow. You have been so pleasant. And you smiled so at me this morning. I know you have liked me—"