He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about Marie-Louise—since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten.
"Jean"—she was speaking in a low, anxious voice—"it's—it's not true, is it, Jean?"
The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips, that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled lips of that dream statue, were quivering now.
Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober—yes, that was it—more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and—
"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not hear me? Jean—it isn't true, is it?"
"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I do not know what you are talking about."
"The beacon, Jean"—she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen for herself, and to be very careful of it because—because"—her voice broke suddenly—"because she said that you had given it to her. Jean—it's not true, is it?"
For a moment Jean did not speak. There were tears in her eyes! A twinge of guilty confusion seized him. Yes, it was so—Marie-Louise had been forgotten. Yesterday he had given it to Marie-Louise. But who would have thought it would make any difference to her—a thing like that! She was perhaps angry for the moment, but it would be only for the moment.
"Mais, sacré nom!" he exclaimed, and forced a laugh. "And what of it? It is nothing! I will make you another."
She did not answer; but into the brown eyes came a miserable hurt, and into the face a sudden whiteness. It was only the day before that he had given it to her, and had said it was a beacon, and that the beacon was herself with arms outstretched to welcome him always. It had meant so much to her—and now it seemed to have meant so little to Jean.