"Parfaitement! It is dat only which made 'er come, mon petit."
"Smooth!" muttered Jim. "And she saw me, all right," he finished bitterly.
Piquette was silent for awhile.
"She is ver' 'andsome," she said at last. And then, "An' she foun' me asleep wit' my 'ead on your shoulder."
"Yes," muttered Jim. "She did."
At the moment he could not think how much his words wounded her.
"I am sorry, mon petit," she said gently.
His conscience smote him at the tone of contrition.
"Oh, it doesn't matter, of course," he said. "There was no hope—for me—none. But it complicates things a little."
"Yes, I comprehend. Monsieur hopes to keep you from reaching the Duc."