She paused and then went on. "Why 'as she marry your broder if she does not love 'im? La la!" She stopped and shrugged her pretty shoulders. "Perhaps you onderstan' now, mon petit Jeem, why I 'ave not marry. Not onless I love, and den——," her voice sank to a tense whisper, "and den ontil deat' I would be true——"
"Yes, Piquette. You are that sort. But this——," and he glanced about the room.
She shrugged as she caught his meaning.
"Monsieur 'as much money. Why should I not be content as well as some one else?"
Deep in his heart he was sorry for her, but he could see that she was not in the least sorry for herself. And the unconventionality of her views, the total lack of moral sense, seemed somehow less important than the rugged sincerity of her point of view and the steadfastness of her friendship.
"And you have never loved well enough to marry?" he asked.
"No, mon Jeem," she said gently.
Their glances met, his level and friendly. And it was her look that first turned away. "No, mon Jeem," she repeated slowly. "One does not meet such a man, ontil it is too late." She gave a sharp little gasp and sat up facing him. "An' I speak of my troubles when you 'ave greater ones of your own. I want to 'elp you, mon ami. You 'ave in your mind a duty to do with Monsieur the Duc de Vautrin. You 'ave make me t'ink. Perhaps it is my duty too."
"I've got to see him at once, before Quinlevin does."
"Eh bien. He is on the Riviera—Nice. We s'all find 'im."