“And you don’t hate me? You can forgive me?”
“Oh, mon bien cher ami, there is nothing to forgive! It is so.... It is only that I cried sometimes for you, because you are mos’ miserable.... I say to theenk how sad you are, and then I cry.... I would not have you to be sad.”
“It isn’t possible,” Ken said, more than half to himself. “There’s nobody like this in the world.”
“Possible?... Pourquoi?”
“Mademoiselle Pourquoi—dear little Mademoiselle Pourquoi!” he said, softly.
“You are not angry with me any more—not jealous?”
“No.... No.”
“It is well.” She smiled for the first time and touched his arm with her little hand. “Then I am joyous.”
“You ought to be joyous always.... You are wonderful. When I think what you were giving up for me—and that I could suspect you—I hate myself.”
“But you are not sad now? There is not any mistake any more, and we are together. You are not sad?”