The door of Jean’s bedroom was closed. He knocked, and, receiving no reply, entered. She was lying face downward on her white camp-bed, sobbing as she had sobbed that April day three years ago. He sat down beside her and smoothed her hair.
“I’m afraid that my little girl has been having words with our guest.”
She lifted herself on her elbow and began to speak, though her breath came in short catches, like a child’s when it has stopped crying but cannot control its throat.
“Daddy, please go with him and see him off.”
“What! Is he leaving?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“Did you send him away?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“What had the wretch done?”
“He pitied me.”