Myrna Bliss laughed at him merrily.
"Then that is settled!" she announced. "Three hundred francs. There is nothing more to be said. The only question is, will Marie-Louise let us have the house?"
"Mademoiselle," said the old priest, his eyes twinkling, "may I say it?—you are charming! As for the arrangements, have no fear. I would go this evening, only I have some sick to visit. But very early in the morning I will see Marie-Louise, and by the time mademoiselle and her father have had breakfast the house will be at their disposal."
She reached her hand across the gate to thank Father Anton and bid the curé good evening—but Jean no longer heard a word. His mind seemed to be clashing discordantly; his thoughts in dissension, in open hostility one to another. She was to live in the house on the bluff. Marie-Louise was to stay there, too. One moment he saw no objection to the plan; the next moment, for a thousand vague, fragmentary reasons, that in their entire thousand would not form a single concrete whole that he could grasp, he did not like it at all.
He answered Father Anton's "au revoir" mechanically, as they started back for the Bas Rhône. She was in a hurry now, all life, all excitement—half running.
"Did I not tell you, Jean, that I would find just what I wanted?" she called out in gay spirits.
She had told him nothing of the sort.
"Yes," said Jean.
They reached the Bas Rhône, and there, in the doorway, she turned.
"I must find my father, and tell him," she said. There was a smile, a flash of the grey eyes, a glint from the bronze-crowned head, a quick little impetuous pressure on his arm, a laugh soft and musical as the rippling of a brook; and then: "Until to-morrow, Jean."