"Not once," she murmured.
"You are sure that he had your letters? He knows that you are out here and alone?"
"Yes, he knows!"
There was a short silence. The woman found it hard to know what to say. Somewhere down along the white, dusty road a man was grinding the music of a threadbare waltz from an ancient barrel-organ. The girl closed her eyes.
"We used to hear that sometimes," she whispered, "at the cafés. At one where we went often they used to know that I liked it and they always played it when we came. It is queer to hear it again—like this…. Oh, when I close my eyes," she muttered, "I am afraid! It is like shutting out life for always."
The woman by her side got up. Lucie caught at her skirt.
"Madame, you are not going yet?" she pleaded. "Am I selfish? Yet you have not stayed with me so long as yesterday, and I am so lonely."
The woman's face had hardened a little.
"I am going to find that man," she replied. "I have his address. I want to bring him to you."
The girl's hold upon her skirt tightened.