“Then I must find you a lodging. Heavens, mademoiselle, what has possessed you?”
She did not answer. He looked at her there in the grey dusk, the little window open behind her, the old blackened discoloured walls, the poor meagre fittings, the wretchedness around, and she standing, so womanly, so brave, so patient, as she was under his upbraidings. He longed to take her hand and draw her away out of that hot foul atmosphere. He could give himself without a murmur, but his heart cried out against her making a choice like this. Is it not always easier to give ourselves than to give our dearest?
“Come,” he said, almost passionately.
But she made no movement. She only said,—“If you order it, I must go, of course. But what would be the good? If any mischief is done it must be done by this time. Pray, pray let me stay!”
She had the advantage of being perfectly self-possessed, while he was deeply moved and very pale.
“I will find some one to come here. Indeed, you must not remain.”
She saw he was wavering.
“Then let me go to the hospital. You know you want nurses.”
“Yes, but they are trained, experienced nurses that we want.”
“I can learn quickly,” Thérèse said, eagerly. “Allons, M. Deshoulières, when those that you seek come, I can go away. Or leave me here.”