"Wise?"—Jean looked at her, puzzled.
"Marie-Louise is not blind," said Myrna quietly. "It is far better that she should have seen things for herself—and she could not help seeing them during the last week."
"You mean?" Jean began—and stopped.
"You know what I mean, Jean," she said gravely. "That she must have seen what everybody else sees—what you see yourself. That if she ever had any idea of going to Paris with you, it is quite out of the question. It is different now—everything is changed. You are not a fisherman any longer; you have a great place to take in the world that she cannot take beside you. A week in Paris and, even if neither of you see it now, you would both see it only too bitterly and clearly then. For both your sakes it is better settled now."
Jean was staring across the room to where, outside, the crowd was packed densely in the road. Had he not thought of just those things that she had been saying? Had he not thought of them all week? They were true; but still there was Marie-Louise who—what was that? They were cheering him there outside—it made his blood tingle, he felt the mad elation of it, his soul seemed to leap out to meet the acclaim!
"But that is not all, Jean"—she was speaking again. "There is another thing, something you owe to—oh, how shall I say it?—to your country, and—" She stopped suddenly and caught his arm. "Listen!" she breathed. "Listen!"
It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in the automobile.
"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen—you have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde."
Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm.
"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!"