"C'est bien," whispered Piquette with a smile. "I t'ink you 'ave taught me somet'ing, mon Jeem——"
"As you've taught me," he blurted out, "but I won't lie to you, Piquette."
"Dat is as it mus' be. An' now we on'erstan' each oder. I am ver' content."
Jim Horton, from embarrassment at the astonishing confession, began to understand its motive and sat silent, Piquette's hand in his, aware of the bond of sympathy between them.
"It's a queer world, Piquette," he said at last, with a dry laugh. "I care for somebody I can't have—you care for me—why, God knows. I've made a fine mess of things and will probably go on making a mess of things—her life, mine, yours—when you and I might have hit it off from the beginning."
"No, mon Jeem, you were not for me."
"Piquette!"
She caught his hand in both of her own and with one of her swift transitions from the womanly to the child-like she pleaded.
"An' now you will not 'ide me away in Marseilles?"
He smiled at her earnestness and it wasn't in his heart any longer to refuse her.