"And I have told you," declared Jean, with sudden, fierce assertion, "that I can make a thousand, and all better than this one!"
She bent her head to hide the blinding tears that were filling her eyes again. It meant nothing to him, that which had been so great a pledge to her. It was only a poupée, a clay doll, one of dozens that he had given to the children to amuse them. And the things he had said about it meant nothing—they had only been words—only words, but she could not forget them. A little sob rose in her throat, and was choked bravely back. They were coming down the path now, mademoiselle and her father, and she must go.
"You do not understand," she said brokenly—and, turning, ran quickly along the beach.
For a space Jean watched her as she sped over the sand, until, ignoring the path, she climbed lithely up the rocks at the far end of the beach, and disappeared in the direction of the house. His hand, a knotted lump, drawn back for a smashing blow on the gunwale of the boat, a blow that should relieve his feelings, opened hesitantly instead and passed a little dazedly across his eyes.
"Sacré maudit!" he muttered in slow earnestness under his breath.
Since last night the world was upside-down! Since last night he did not know himself! He knew nothing! Only that all Bernay-sur-Mer was changed. That everything was changed. That he had made Marie-Louise cry. That they had talked about that accursed piece of clay that had made Marie-Louise cry, as though it were worth talking about!
"Sacré maudit!" muttered Jean again. "What does it all mean?"
And then he was watching her, this glorious American, coming now along the beach toward him with the man who Marie-Louise had said was mademoiselle's father.
"Jean!"—she was calling out to him. "Here is father at last! Did you think we were never coming?"
Two hands fell upon his shoulders, holding him off at arms' length; and the man, with frank eagerness, was staring into his face. Over her father's shoulder, Myrna was laughing roguishly.