“What is that?”
“It’s a very serious thing, very serious, indeed. But I think I ought to tell you, and I think you ought to do it if your laughter is to ring true.”
“Are you in earnest?”
“Yes, quite. Did you know that when we were here before there was a man very badly wounded—desperately, in fact. I was speaking to Father Michel to-day about it and I told him I was sure you would not like to have such a thing on your conscience without doing all you could to help him. That was right, wasn’t it?”
“Of course. Was it that struggle in the street here?”
“No, the man doesn’t belong to Poabja; but he was here to-day. The poor fellow will never get over the wound. And he blames you, and feels that you alone can save him.”
“Wound? Blames me? What can I do?”
“Marry him.”
“Bourgwan!” she cried, changing on the instant from puzzled pity to laughing confusion; and then—well, no matter what then.
Soon afterwards we sat down together and had a good, square talk which did not end until she had agreed that we had better consult Father Michel about the details.