"He is charming—the curé," breathed Alice, her breast heaving—"Charming!" she repeated in a voice full of suppressed emotion.
Tanrade did not speak. He had let the despatch slip to the floor and sat staring at his glass.
"You'll come, of course," I said with sudden apprehension, but he only shook his head. "What! you're not going?" I exclaimed in amazement. "We'll kill fifty ducks a night—it's the gale we've been waiting for."
I saw the sullen gleam that had crept into Alice's eyes soften; she drew near him—she barely touched his arm:
"Go, mon cher!" she said simply—"if you wish."
He lifted his head with a grim smile, and I saw their eyes meet. I well knew what was passing in his mind—his promise to her to work—more than this, I knew he had not the heart to leave her during her well-earned rest.
"Ah! les hommes!" Alice exclaimed, turning to me impetuously—"you are quite crazy, you hunters."
I bowed in humble apology and again her dark eyes softened to tenderness.
"Non—forgive me, mon ami," she went on, "you are sane enough until news comes of those wretched little ducks, then, mon Dieu! there is no holding you. Everything else goes out of your head; you become as mad as children rushing to a fête. Is it not so?"