“Laure?” he called. “Laure?”
“It’s Fair,” she said. “I came back.”
She saw him grind the paper between his hands—and then he turned toward her, smiling a little.
“You had forgotten something?”
“Yes.” She was quite near now, but her voice was so low that it barely reached him. “I came back to tell you—to tell you——”
The smile deepened on the dark young face. “Ah, tiens! There was something, then, that you forgot to tell me? Never should I have said it!”
“Please,” she entreated, in that shadow of a voice. “Please. I know now about—about—Laure told me!”
“About why I lie like that cat in the sun? Good! Now you tell Laure——” He broke off sharply. “She was not kind, our Laure? You are weeping? Do not weep; those little jewels of tears, so small, so shining, so empty, empty—you women love them best of all your jewels, I think. But me, I do not think that they become you best!”
“I don’t cry often,” Fair told him. “Not often, really. You can ask Dad—no, no—not Dad. It’s because I’m tired, probably. I came back because I wanted to tell you——” She swallowed despairingly, the tears salt on her lips.
“Why, because you were a good child,” he helped her gaily. “And wanted to tell me that you were sorry.”