Paul filled the priest’s glass again and replenished his own, but the old man rose laughingly from the table.
‘I am something of a poet,’ he said, ‘in my imaginations, but I do not carry my fancies into practice. No more wine to-night.’
Paul pressed him, but the old gentleman was firm. He yielded to the temptation of coffee and a cigar, and the two went on talking of trifles for half an hour. Annette had long since risen from the table, and had strolled to the far end of the room beyond the glowing stove. She had thrown open a French window there, and had stood for some time looking out upon the night when she called for Paul.
‘Come here; I want to speak to you.’
Paul excused himself, and obeyed the summons. Beyond the French window lay a little alcove, about which a barren but full-leaved vine was trailed. The sky was still filled with a diffuse light, and the May moon, pale as yet, was rising like a silver canoe above the edge of a hill a mile away.
‘Paul,’ said Annette, ‘I want to stay here. There’s a sort of peace about the place, and I should like to be here for a little while.’
‘Well, dear,’ he answered, ‘there are worse places in the world.’
‘No,’ she whispered, drawing him down to her; ‘I want to tell you something.’ With her arm about his neck, she breathed into his ear: ‘There are only two of us, Paul; you must look out for a third.’
He turned her face to his, and he saw that her eyes were moist and that her face was pale. The momentous thing had been prettily said, as if only a touch of fun and a touch of commonplace could make the sacredness of it bearable to either. In that second he forgot everything. Indifference melted, vanished, and he took her in his arms with a feeling he had never known before. How long they stood there he could not have told, but the voice of the priest awoke him from his thoughts.
‘I am afraid, Monsieur Armstrong,’ said the doyen, ‘that I delay my departure too long.’