“It was my father’s request that he should not—and—and——” Her voice trailed off into silence. Chin in hand, she gazed unseeingly at the opposite wall.
Lucile was silent for a moment, busy patching the pieces of the story together into one connected whole. Then, leaning forward suddenly, she cried, excitedly, “Then M. Charloix deliberately made up that wicked, cruel lie that separated you and his son?” 160
The girl nodded. “But nothing matters now, save that it was a lie,” she cried, and Lucile, looking at her, marveled.
The raucous toot of a motor horn brought both the girls to their feet with a startled exclamation.
“Oh, it is your friends,” said Jeanette, running to the window. “You must go down at once. Ah, I am sorry to part with you, ma cherie,” holding the younger girl from her gently and looking earnestly into the flushed, eager, face. “You have come into my life like some good fairy, bringing happiness with you.”
Emotion choked the words Lucile wanted to say, but her silence was more eloquent than words and Jeanette was satisfied.
A moment later they were descending the stairs, arm in arm, and very reluctant to part.
To Lucile’s surprise, Jeanette paused as they reached the lower hall and motioned her to go on.
“But I want you to meet my father and mother and the girls,” Lucile protested. “You’ve got to give them a chance to thank you.”
But Jeanette only shook her head. “I can see no one now,” she whispered, tremulously. “Ah, I could not bear it!”