"Does he?" Hector thought of the Marquis' reputation as a lady-killer and wondered how many women could say the same thing. "May I see one?"
"Ah-ah—s-a-y—!"
"Come along," he encouraged, "as proof!"
"There!"
From the bosom of her dress she fished a sachet. Out of this she extracted a bit of paper, which she handed over to Hector, smiling prettily. Then she walked away to hide her confusion in the shadows.
Hector read, in the strong handwriting of the Marquis:
The land was still, by parching drought possessed—
A desert waste. From out the sullen sky
The sun beat down. Her burnt and barren breast
Lay naked to his wrath. She longed to die—
Exhausted, now by months of endless pain....
Till, suddenly, the far horizon's rim
Trembled with lightning and the day grew dim,
Great thunders rolled and, roaring, then—the rain!
And lo! Where sorrow thrived and death had been,
Gladness and life returned. The hopeless herds
Came drifting back and all the land was green,
Fragrant and fresh and loud with singing birds
Returning thanks.... O, say you understand....
The rain,—it was your love; my heart the land!
Could the Marquis, after all, be genuinely in love with this girl?
"Thank you, Miss Lavine."