She turned away. How distractingly pretty she was this morning in the old garden, herself a part of its bloom! Over the gate she had given him a rose, and renewed friendship after a dispute.
“I must go. I have passed my word. Renée—” in a beseeching tone.
She half turned, like a bird who wonders whether he will fly or not, but her lowered eyes had a laugh in them.
“Renée, you know I love you——”
“No, I do not.” He could see the swelling of her bosom that sent a throb up to her throat. “You do nothing for me now. You are off with the men. You are—oh, so very charming to the girls!” with a cutting little emphasis. “And you are always talking to Uncle Gaspard about business——”
“And last night you ran away to bed without even a good-night!” with upbraiding in his voice.
“Oh, did you miss me? I never supposed you would. I was tired sitting there, thinking my own thoughts.”
“Now we have plenty of time; tell them to me,” and his persuasive tone penetrated her inmost being. What foolish things could she repeat? Her face was scarlet.
“You know now I love you. I have told you so in words. I have told it in many other ways. I confessed it to M. Denys before I went away and he bade me wait patiently. For two years I have carried you in my heart, yes, longer than that. You had your fling about other women; no one has ever moved me. Every night I said, ‘One more day has gone, and at the last I shall go back to the little girl in old St. Louis that I carried in my arms all one night when she was worn out with fatigue and hunger and cold. Renée——”
“I cannot leave Uncle Denys. I have said hundreds of times I never would,” and her voice was sweet with pathos that penetrated his inmost soul.