"I thought that you loved Alphonse Giraud, and would marry him."
Lucille stood and never looked at me.
"Was I wrong, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes—and I told Alphonse so from the beginning, but he did not believe me until lately."
"I thought it was he," I said.
"No—nor any like him. If ever I did—either of those things—it would need to be a man—one of strong will who would be master, not only of me, but of men; one whom I should always think wiser and stronger and braver than any other."
I looked at her, and saw nothing but her profile and the gleam of a sun-ray on her hair.
"Am I a man, Mademoiselle?"
There was a silence, a long one, I thought it.
"Yes," she answered at last, barely audible; and as she spoke stepped out into the broken shade of the cypress trees. She went a few paces away from me—then came slowly back and stood before me. Her face was quite colourless, but there was that in her eyes that brings heaven down to earth.