“But I thought there were no adventures—that that was the wonder of it?”
She shrugged. “It makes their stories a little dull, at any rate; we’ve not a hero or a martyr to show.” She had strolled farther from the house as we talked, leading me in the direction of a bare horse-chestnut walk that led toward the park.
“Of course Jean’s got to listen to it all, poor boy; but I needn’t,” she explained.
I didn’t know exactly what to answer and we walked on a little way in silence; then she said: “If you’d carried him off this morning he would have escaped all this fuss.” After a pause she added slowly: “On the whole, it might have been as well.”
“To carry him off?”
“Yes.” She stopped and looked at me. “I wish you would.”
“Would?—Now?”
“Yes, now: as soon as you can. He’s really not strong yet—he’s drawn and nervous.” (“So are you,” I thought.) “And the excitement is greater than you can perhaps imagine—”
I gave her back her look. “Why, I think I can imagine....”
She coloured up through her sallow skin and then laughed away her blush. “Oh, I don’t mean the excitement of seeing me! But his parents, his grandmother, the curé, all the old associations—”