She tried to recall. "I think—it was Jim. Yes, it was Jim." She fancied she could hear the voice of that ferocious sister snapping out that name in the miserable little coop of a general room in that hot, foul, farm cottage.
"Where did he live?"
"His farm was at the edge of Zeke Warham's place—not far from
Beecamp, in Jefferson County."
She lapsed into silence, seemed to be watching the gay night streets of the Montmartre district—the cafés, the music halls, the sidewalk shows, the throngs of people every man and woman of them with his or her own individual variation upon the fascinating, covertly terrible face of the Paris mob. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, when a remark brought no answer.
"The past," said she. "And the future."
"Well—we'll find out in a few days that your farmer's got no claim on you—and we'll attend to that marriage contract and everything'll be all right."
"Do you want to marry me?" she asked, turning on him suddenly.
"We're as good as married already," replied he. "Your tone sounds as if you didn't want to marry me." And he laughed at the absurdity of such an idea.
"I don't know whether I do or not," said she slowly.
He laid a gentle strong hand on her knee. Gentle though it was, she felt its strength through the thickness of her cloak. "When the time comes," said he in the soft voice with the menace hidden in it, "you'll know whether you do or don't. You'll know you do—Queenie."