The special ardour possessing Gaston at that moment belonged to the order of the communicative, but perhaps the vividness with which the waiter placed this exhibition of it before the young lady is better explained by the fact that her lover slipped a five-franc piece into his hand. She at any rate entered his place of patience sooner than Gaston had ventured to hope, though she corrected her promptitude a little by stopping short and drawing back when she saw how pale he was and how he looked as if he had been crying.
“I’ve chosen—I’ve chosen,” he said expressively, smiling at her in denial of these indications.
“You’ve chosen?”
“I’ve had to give them up. But I like it so better than having to give YOU up! I took you first with their assent. That was well enough—it was worth trying for. But now I take you without it. We can live that way too.”
“Ah I’m not worth it. You give up too much!” Francie returned. “We’re going away—it’s all over.” She averted herself quickly, as if to carry out her meaning, but he caught her more quickly still and held her—held her fast and long. She had only freed herself when her father and sister broke in from the salon, attracted apparently by the audible commotion.
“Oh I thought you had at least knocked over the lamp!” Delia exclaimed.
“You must take me with you if you’re going away, Mr. Dosson,” Gaston said. “I’ll start whenever you like.”
“All right—where shall we go?” that amiable man asked.
“Hadn’t you decided that?”
“Well, the girls said they’d tell me.”