She cast them down a moment in confusion or meditation. No longer she wore black. That had been in imitation of the sisters’ dull dress, and she had put it aside with the mass and the confession. Her tunic, the simple flowing garment of the valley, was of pale blue. Her hair was parted on her low, delicate forehead. Her legs were stockingless, her feet thrust into small, brown shoes.
She raised her eyes, and replied slowly, seeking the answer herself, maybe, at the moment.
“Monsieur Lutz is a gentleman. He says he loves me. I must marry a white man. Who else is there? If I stay in Taaoa, I shall become a Marquesan pure. It is so easy.”
Her manner was naïve and confiding, and affected me deeply. Where lay her chance for happiness?
Abruptly, the accusation of Lemoal rung in my ears; and I could hardly refrain from voicing it, in a wish to hear her fierce denial. Never had she been more attractive, more the pattern of the most wholesome and fairest of her mingled parentage. I could not resist saying:
“You know Lemoal?”
“That canaille! He worked for my father for long and cheated him. Ah, he is a bad one! Only the last few weeks he has been hanging about my house to wheedle food and drink from me without return. He is of no account. Why do you ask?”
“He says that you are ill.”
“Ill! I?”
Her eyes closed, and her body became limp an instant. A flush spread over her face.