So she could not feel much sorrow for André’s going away; her own filled all her heart. He might have thought her quiet a sign of it, but his eyes seemed to have been curiously opened.
“You will give me good wishes?” he said the last evening he came. “And—will you not say that you shall miss me?”
“Of course, I shall miss you,” but the dreariness in the tone was not for him. “I shall be so much alone.”
“M. Denys will be here—” He was a little puzzled.
“Oh, yes! But, then——”
“Renée,” impetuously, “you have some sorrow. You are not like yourself. What has happened?”
“Yes, I have some sorrow in my heart. I cannot tell any one,” and the red lips quivered.
“And you were so gay a little while ago. Oh, my darling—” His full heart overflowed in his face.
She held up her hand in entreaty. “Don’t,” she said in a half-irritated way. “I shall never be any one’s darling again. And,” in something of her old imperious tone, “if I cannot have the love I want I will not have any!”
He looked at her in amaze. Did she love some one else, then? He was suddenly stunned. That had never entered his thoughts.