"Yes, I."
"Why so?"
"Because I am in love with you, and you know it very well, you naughty girl."
She said, in a severe tone: "You are mad, Pretty-boy."
He replied; "I know very well that I am mad. Ought I to have admitted that—I, a married man, to you, a young girl? I am more than mad, I am guilty. I have no possible hope, and the thought of that drives me out of my senses. And when I hear it said that you are going to be married, I have fits of rage enough to kill someone. You must forgive me this, Susan."
He was silent. The whole of the fish, to whom bread was no longer being thrown, were motionless, drawn up in line like English soldiers, and looking at the bent heads of those two who were no longer troubling themselves about them. The young girl murmured, half sadly, half gayly: "It is a pity that you are married. What would you? Nothing can be done. It is settled."
He turned suddenly towards her, and said right in her face: "If I were free, would you marry me?"
She replied, in a tone of sincerity: "Yes, Pretty-boy, I would marry you, for you please me far better than any of the others."
He rose, and stammered: "Thanks, thanks; do not say 'yes' to anyone yet, I beg of you; wait a little longer, I entreat you. Will you promise me this much?"
She murmured, somewhat uneasily, and without understanding what he wanted: "Yes, I promise you."