And then suddenly she smiled, and shook her head at him again.
"Did I not tell you last night, Jean, that you were less like a fisherman than any man I had ever seen?"
"Yes; mademoiselle said that." Was there a word of hers that he had forgotten!
"Very well, then," she began magisterially, "since you think nothing of that little statue, I will tell you what I think. It is so much more than 'nothing' that I am going to buy it from you. It is"—her voice changed suddenly, soft in abandon, full in admiration—"oh, Jean, it is superb, magnificent; it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen; and—and I think I want it more than I have ever wanted anything before."
She had come closer to him, touched him, her hand was on his sleeve, her cheeks were flushed. That look—God, was he mad?—that same look was in her eyes again. Yes, he was mad—with a madness that bade him sweep her into his arms and crush her there in all her alluring beauty. He was white—he felt the blood leave his face. She wanted that—wanted that bit of clay that he had made!
"It is not for sale, mademoiselle," he said hoarsely; "it is yours."
"No, no, Jean!" she cried. "You do not understand. It is worth—oh, I do not know how much—ever so much money. Father will be able to tell us. It is on account of this that he rushed off to try and find you. He is terribly excited about it."
His hand at his side was clenched; his arm was rigid—he dared not move it for fear she might draw her hand away—it would not come often, a touch of intimacy like that. What did it matter about her father! What did anything matter—but that fiery tide that was whipping through his veins.
"It is good of monsieur, it is good of mademoiselle to praise it," he muttered.
"But it is not good of us!" she asserted earnestly. "Really, I must try to make you understand, Jean. I can't take it under false pretences, you know—you might hate me for it afterwards. I am sure you would. My father says it is a wonderful piece of work—that you are a great artist."