“No—no. Because I wanted to tell you that I was glad.”
“Glad?” He was on his feet, with that cry.
“How could I be sorry for you, Philippe? Oh, I can’t be sorry for myself—not even now—not now, when I see myself. I wanted so to be proud of you—you don’t know—you don’t—you don’t——”
“And why did you so want to be proud of me, may I ask?”
“Because I love you,” said Fair clearly.
Philippe le Gai caught at the cushioned chair. “You are mad,” he said.
“Yes.” The voice tripped in its haste. “Yes, but you see I had to tell you. You mustn’t mind; I’m going this afternoon—Marie Léontine’s waiting now. Don’t mind, please, Philippe; I didn’t know, myself, truly—not till Laure told me about—about you, and I knew that I didn’t care at all how horrible and vile I had been, because I was so glad that you—that you——”
“Hush!” He stood quite still, and then he raised his hand to his eyes. “I should send you far from me, Fairfax.”
“Yes,” said Fair, “I’m not any good, you see. All I had to give you was my money and my—my prettiness. I can’t give you either of them, Philippe.”
“When I heard you laugh, that first night when you came,” he told her, “I remembered—I remembered that laughter was not just a sound to cover up despair—I remembered how to laugh that night.”