He held out his hand gaily to say good-bye.
“And—stay! Will you write to me if you want me, mademoiselle? I may be able to get to you.”
Denise did not answer for a moment. Then she looked him straight in the eyes, as was her wont with men and women alike.
“Yes,” she said.
A few minutes later, Mademoiselle Brun came into the garden. She looked round but saw no one. Approaching the spot where she had left Denise, she found the basket with a few beans in it, and Denise's gloves lying there. She knew that Lory had gone, but still she could see Denise nowhere. There were a hundred places in the garden where any who did not wish to be discovered could find concealment.
Mademoiselle Brun took up the basket and continued to pick the French beans.
“My poor child! my poor child!” she muttered twice, with a hard face.