“It means nothing,” she answered.
“There was an editorial, yesterday,” he said, “an editorial that I thought was about Rodney McCune. Did you write it?”
“Yes.”
“It was about—me—wasn't it?”
“Yes.”
“It said—it said—that I had won the love of every person in Carlow County.”
Suddenly she found her voice. “Do not misunderstand me,” she said rapidly. “I have done the little that I have done out of gratitude.” She faced him now, but without meeting his eyes. “I told you, remember, that you would understand some day what I meant by that, and the day has come. I owed you more gratitude than a woman ever owed a man before, I think, and I would have died to pay a part of it. I set every gossip's tongue in Rouen clacking at the very start, in the merest amateurish preparation for the work Mr. Macauley gave me. That was nothing. And the rest has been the happiest time in my life. I have only pleased myself, after all!”
“What gratitude did you owe me?”
“What gratitude? For what you did for my father.”
“I have only seen your father once in my life—at your table at the dance supper, that night.”