Maggie ceased breaking small branches and throwing them into the river. She ceased all movement, and scarcely seemed to breathe.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“He is staying with me here.”
Maggie glanced toward the canoe. She drew a short, sharp breath, but she did not move.
“Mademoiselle,” said Steinmetz earnestly, “I am an old man, and in my time I have dabbled pretty deeply in trouble. But taking it all around, even my life has had its compensations. And I have seen lives which, taken as a mere mortal existence, without looking to the hereafter at all, have been quite worth the living. There is much happiness in life to make up for the rest. But that happiness must be firmly held. It is so easily slipped through the fingers. A little irresolution—a little want of moral courage—a little want of self-confidence—a little pride, and it is lost. You follow me?”
Maggie nodded. There was a great tenderness in her eyes—such a tenderness as, resting on men, may bring them nearer to the angels.
Steinmetz laid his large hand over hers.
“Mademoiselle,” he went on, “I believe that the good God sent you along this lonely river in your boat. Paul leaves me to-morrow. His arrangements are to go to India and shoot tigers. He will sail in a week. There are things of which we never speak together—there is one name that is never mentioned. Since Osterno you have avoided meeting him. God knows I am not asking for him any thing that he would be afraid to ask for himself. But he also has his pride. He will not force himself in where he thinks his presence unwelcome.”
Steinmetz rose somewhat ponderously and stood looking down at her. He did not, however, succeed in meeting her eyes.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I beg of you most humbly—most respectfully—to come through the garden with me toward the house, so that Paul may at least know that you are here.”