What was her father going to do with this "discovery" of his, as he called it? Discovery—his! A little thrill ran through her. It was not his discovery—it was hers! It was she who had discovered Jean Laparde—in that one look. The man's soul, a great smouldering volcano of emotion, was in his face, his eyes. It was amazing that this had happened; amazing almost beyond credence that, hidden in the little village, a fisherman, untaught, unconscious even of his own power, had produced a piece of work that had aroused her father, one of the great art critics in France, to such a pitch of elated excitement—but somehow it was not in the least bit amazing that it was Jean Laparde who had done it!
Her eyes fixed again on the boat, that was well in now between the reef and the headland; and, with a sudden little gasp, she rose quickly to her feet—it was Jean Laparde himself. What splendid width of shoulder, what strength, and ease, and assurance in the sweep of the oars that bent the blades backward from swirling little eddies, that lifted the heavy boat to send it bounding forward as though it were a feather-weight. It was Jean Laparde—the fiancé of Marie-Louise!
It was to the front at last, that thought! It had been dominant from the moment Marie-Louise had uttered the words, only she had attempted to ignore it, lose it in the other phases of this bewildering morning. But it was out now! Well, what of it? It was an impossible situation this that she had created, was it not? There was no use in denying even to herself that the man had aroused in her—what should she call it?—a desire to cultivate him a little, since he would be so new, so fresh, so quite different. And Marie-Louise was at the moment now actually in her employ as—one could not call her a servant, it was Marie-Louise's own house, and she was only there to help for a little while at the curé's request—but still—the colour burned red in Myrna's cheeks.
The next instant, she smiled a little. What a simpleton she was! What on earth did it matter! What could it possibly matter! Good heavens, she wasn't going to take this Jean Laparde away from Marie-Louise! She wasn't going to marry him! There wasn't the slightest reason in the world why, just when the man turned out to be an embryonic genius and promised to prove really interesting, she should change her attitude toward him—and, anyway, it was almost a foregone conclusion that her father now would monopolise Jean Laparde morning, noon and night.
She glanced at the boat—and started abruptly for the house. To remain there would have been almost too obviously—a meeting. Jean had evidently not gone to the village at all with the other boats—she supposed there were other boats since the curé had spoken of them—but had come directly in from wherever he had been fishing.
She reached the house and through the window watched Jean send the boat sweeping up to the beach, leap from it, and, seemingly without exertion, pull it higher over the sand. He turned then, searching the house with his eyes; and suddenly placed his hands trumpet-fashion to his lips.
"Marie-Louise! Ho, Marie-Louise!" she heard him shout, as he came running up the cliff path from the beach.
Virile in movement, a striking figure, there seemed all of command, something heroic even in the rugged strength, something absolutely undauntable about the man. And then she laughed merrily to herself, as she stepped to the door. What a change! Who would have believed it! Jean, at sight of her, had stopped as though he had been struck, self-consciousness mocked at the air of command, and through the brown tan of his face crept the red.
"Oh, it is you, Jean!" she exclaimed.
Mechanically he reached up for his cap.