"And as for the money," Henry Bliss went on quietly. "You need have no qualms on that score, my boy. Pay it back by all means, if you'll feel the better for it. In a year, two years, you'll be a wealthy man. Why, Jean, don't you understand—there isn't one of the men who will be here shortly but would pay you any price you chose to ask for that little statue you gave to my daughter here? So, even on a basis of dollars and cents alone, as it stands now, you couldn't owe me anything, don't you see?"
What were they saying to him! Fame, a great sculptor, wealth, a name, his name, the name of Jean Laparde to be known throughout all France! Why did it come back to him now, that night of the great storm when he had stood and watched the scene, rapt and awed, on his way to Marie-Louise? What strange blasphemy was that, that had been his, that had envied the bon Dieu the creation of that mighty picture?
"Jean"—Myrna had caught his arm, her head was between her father's now and his, the soft, bronzed hair for an instant brushed his forehead, her breath was on his cheek, the grey eyes were smiling into his—"Jean, wouldn't you like to go to Paris?"
To Paris! She lived in Paris—she was always in Paris—always there. A day, a week, two weeks, a month he would have seen her here—in Paris there would be neither days nor weeks nor months to count. The grey eyes were veiled suddenly, demurely, under the long lashes—but the little hand on his arm, with a quick, added pressure, remained. His head swam dizzily—there was an untamed, pulsing elation upon him, a greed for her that racked and tormented him, a greed to clasp her head between his hands and lift up her face and press kiss after kiss upon those eyelids, that mouth, until in the very insatiability of his passion she should fling her arms around his neck and return his embrace!
"Yes—yes!" he said tensely, fiercely. "Mon Dieu, yes—I would like to go to Paris!"
Her hand fell from his arm.
"Oh, Jean—I'm so glad!"—it seemed as though she were whispering softly to him.
"Good!" cried Henry Bliss enthusiastically, with a double slap on Jean's shoulder.
Jean did not speak. It was not easy in an instant to quench that fire that was devouring him, it was not easy to understand that to-day all his life was to be changed. He looked at Myrna—the grey eyes were gaily mocking him, as she nodded her head. He looked at her father—Henry Bliss was laughing ingenuously like a pleased school-boy.
"I know just how you feel!" said Henry Bliss genially. "All up in the air—eh? Well, I feel that way myself. It is the most amazing thing that ever happened! It seems as though there were a dozen questions I wanted to ask you all at once. And to begin with, those poupées now, how did you—no, hold on! Myrna, we'll motor over to Marseilles for the clay to-day, instead of waiting until to-morrow. We'll have something else to show old Bidelot by the time he gets here! You go up to the house and order an early luncheon. Jean will join us, and we'll have from now to Marseilles and back again to talk."