“Good-by, Monsieur Bert,” she said.
Then they were alone!
In the salon he drew her down beside him on the sofa and held her close.
“I am very sad, mignonne,” he said. “I love you....”
She studied his face a moment and smiled at very trifle of a smile. “That is well,” she answered.
“I am not going away because I want to. It is orders. I have to obey.”
“C’est la guerre,” she said, gravely.
“Yes, it is the war, but it’s cruel—it’s rotten. I want to stay here, to stay with you.”
“I wish that also,” she said.
Something was demanded of him. He must say something, must not keep this child in agony, not knowing what he intended to do with respect to her. It was her right to know.... He must decide, and he must tell her.... But again he put it off. There was time enough, and before he told her there was still the chance of one last happy evening.... He wanted that, wanted the memory of it, if nothing more.