He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether it were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up false standards.
"What are you reading now?" he asked, with his hand on the door.
"Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden," she answered, in good English, and without accent.
His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak.
"Enoch Arden is terrible," she added eagerly. "Don't you think so,
Monsieur?"
"It is very painful," he answered. "Good-night." He opened the door and went out.
She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and snatching up a sheet of the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. She gave a cry of amazement.
"Kathleen!" she exclaimed.
She thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper she had.
"Who was Kathleen?" she whispered, as though she was afraid some one would hear. "Who was Kathleen!" she said again resentfully.