She turned to him, smiling.
"Oh, if you will, Jean!" she cried gratefully. "Please help Jules with the trunks. And afterwards"—her hand was on his sleeve again—"though I must see about arranging things, you mustn't go away. Father will be back shortly, and you must wait."
"I will wait," said Jean.
— VII —
WHERE GLORY AWAITS
His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat, which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged within—occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices—and he was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made poupées out of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had so delighted her. It was very curious—very curious that a little thing like that should have taken their fancy!
His hand passed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a dream—no, not a dream—something much more vital than a dream. From a dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his being seemed to become a seething furnace of passion that consumed him; away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return, kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost utterly lost control of himself.
A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that ravishing form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing, self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession were gone and he was master, would prove too strong for him. And then—what?
His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little forward. Well—what then? His brain would not answer him, save only with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be—a fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night that this enchantment had fallen upon him—and now it possessed him, mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out again—and suddenly the laugh died on his lips.