"I—I did not think that mademoiselle had got here yet," he said, the dark eyes in their steady gaze disconcertingly at variance with his stammering speech.
"We've been here ages," she told him quickly. "But the others have gone back again. Marie-Louise has gone to help Nanette with the things. And my father rushed off with that delightful old curé of yours to look for you."
"Rushed off to look for me?" echoed Jean in astonishment. "But I told Jacques Fregeau to tell you that I would come here as soon—"
"Yes, of course, to look for you—but not for the purpose you imagine!" she broke in smiling, and shook her head reproachfully at him. "Jean, do you know that I am quite angry with you! Come here!" She led the way into the house. "Now!"—pointing to the clay figure on the table. "Is not that your work?"
"But, yes, mademoiselle"—there was only a cursory glance at the beacon; his eyes were on this fresh, glorious, wonderful woman, whose white dress of some marvellous texture draped about her with such exquisite, dainty grace ... and the throat was bare, and full, and white as ivory is white ... that glint of bronze that was always playing over the massive coils of hair ... the playful severity in the pursed lips ... it was intoxication, it was fire ... he had been drunk with it all the night, all that morning in the boat while he had fished.
"Then why did you not tell me about it last night?" she demanded.
With a start, he shrugged his shoulders—and perplexity came.
"But it is nothing—that," he said slowly. "What was there to tell, mademoiselle?"
"Nothing!" She stared at him in amazement. "Do you really mean to say that you think it is—nothing?"
"But, of course!" he said simply.