"Piquette!"
"It's true, mon ami. It 'as never 'appen to me before. Dat's why I know.... No, mon Jeem. It is not necessaire for you to make believe. Voila! You can 'old my 'and. So. But I want you to know. It was from de firs'—at Javet's—'Ow else should I 'ave care' enough to go find you in de Rue Charron? 'Ow else would I care enough to fin' out de difference between you an' 'Arry?" She took a long breath before she went on. "It did not take me long, I assure you—for you, mon ami, were de man I was to love an' 'Arry——" she paused painfully. "'Arry was jus' a mistake."
"I—I'm not what you think I am, Piquette," he broke in awkwardly.
"Let me finish, mon ami," she said with a wave of the hand. "Confession is good for de soul, dey say. I want you to know about me. I am on'y what de bon Dieu make me—a gamine. If 'E wish' me to be fille honnête, 'E would not make a gamine. C'est la destinée."
"Don't, Piquette. I know."
"Mos' men are si bête—always de same. Dey talk of love—Pouf! I know. Toujours la chair.... But you—mon ami—" She held her breath and then gasped gently. "You touch' me gently—wit' respec', like I was a queen—you kiss me on de brows—like I was a fille bonnête. Mon Dieu! What would you? Is it not'ing to be care' for by a man clean like dat?"
"I do care," he said impulsively. "Yes—and like that. I'd give anything to make you happy."
She gently disengaged his arm from about her waist.
"Den care for me like dat—like you say you care," she said gently. "It is what I wish—all I wish, mon petit Jeem."
He touched her hand with his lips but there seemed nothing to say.