“You’ve told me.” Then, in an altered tone, “Did you ever think you knew what happened in California?”
“I guessed.”
She freed herself and sat erect. “There was a man.” She waited, and when he remained silent, “You’d taught me to like to be loved. I didn’t notice it while you were with me, but I missed it terribly after you’d left. I used to cry. And then, out there—after he’d kissed me, I lay awake all night and shivered. I wanted to wash away the touch of his mouth. It was my fault; I’d given him chances and tried to fascinate him. I’d been so stingy with you—that made it worse; and he was a man for whom I didn’t care. I felt I couldn’t write. And it was when I was feeling’ so unhappy that your letter arrived.—Can’t you understand how a girl may like to flirt and yet not be bad?—I’m not saying that I love you, Meester Deek—perhaps I haven’t got it in me to love; only—only that of all men in the world, I like to be loved by you the best.”
He drew her closer to his side. “You dear kiddy.”
“You forgive me?”
It was late when they parted at the door of her hotel.
“I’ll try to be up early,” she promised. “We might even breakfast together. It’s the only meal we haven’t shared.”
He turned back to the streets. Passing shrouded churches, he came to the fire-crowned hill of Montmartre. He wandered on, not greatly caring where he went. From one of the bridges, when the vagueness of dawn was in the sky, he found himself gazing down at the black despair of the silent-flowing river. Wherever he had been, love that could be purchased had smiled into his eyes. The old fear took possession of him: he was different from other men. Why couldn’t he rouse her? Was it his fault—or because there was nothing to arouse?
She wore a troubled look when he met her next morning.
“Shall we breakfast here or at my hotel?”