“I’m ashamed,” he said, clumsily. “I’ve been miserable.... I had to find you and tell you.... I—What can I say? It was wicked—wicked....”
He could go no farther, could only search her face with his eyes for some reflection of her thoughts, for some sign that he might hope for pardon. She did not reply; there was no change in her expression, only that unfathomable gravity and that air of suspended judgment.
“Last night I tried to find you.... I sat and waited, but you did not come. I couldn’t go to sleep until I had begged you to forgive me.... I don’t deserve to be forgiven. What I did—what I said, was unforgivable.... Oh, Andree!...”
There was a little pause, then she said, “You have been sad?”
“Yes.”
“And I also,” she said, not reproachfully.
“I—Never before have I known what it was to suffer—and I have suffered. It was right that I should. I deserved punishment.” Even here the Puritan in him obtruded itself. “And you were so good, so sweet, so wonderful.... I know all about it now—and I was suspicious and brutal.... I was jealous, too. But I didn’t know I was jealous.... When I thought you were not good, it seemed to me that nothing in the world could be good. Do you understand?... But there’s no excuse for me. I should have known, and I should have trusted you.... I didn’t even give you a chance to explain....”
“Oh, you speak ver’ fast. I cannot onderstan’ all.... But you have not been happy—no.... It is to be seen.... At first I do not onderstan’, and I am ver’ sad and hurt—oh, ver’ sad. When I make to cross the pont I look down at the water—yes.... And then I say it is some mistake.... I say something have happen I do not know of and it makes you to be not like Monsieur Ken, but ver’ hurt and miserable and—how you say?—upset? Yes. I say, also, that I love Monsieur Ken and always that I am fidèle.... So what could it be?... If, then, it is nothing, only some mistake, then I am much sorry.... Not sorry for me, monsieur, who have done no wrong, but for you, who are mos’ unhappy.... It is so. My heart it makes to weep for you because you suffer....”
“Andree!...”
She nodded her head gravely. “I do not onderstan’ les Américains.... Non!... Non! They are of a difference. But I onderstan’ love which mus’ be the same in America as in France, so I say Monsieur Ken he is ver’ jealous and ver’ mistaken, and I mus’ be patient and not sad more than is nécessaire.... So I wait till thees mistake is not a mistake any more. And many times I mus’ say to myself that you are jealous, and therefore you love me. Because if there is not love, then there is not to be jealous, n’est-ce pas? So I am almos’ happy, but not quite ... because you love me.”