“It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain Anthony was—was speaking to me,” said Flora de Barral with an effort.
I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to have been thinking of her life, and not only of her life but of the life of the man who was speaking to her too. She let me finish, then shook her head impatiently.
“I mean—death.”
“Well,” I said, “when he stood before you there, outside the cottage, he really stood between you and that. I have it out of your own mouth. You can’t deny it.”
“If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has got it. It was not for me. Oh no! It was not for me that I—It was not fear! There!” She finished petulantly: “And you may just as well know it.”
She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and fro. I thought a little.
“Do you know French, Miss de Barral?” I asked.
She made a sign with her head that she did, but without showing any surprise at the question and without ceasing to swing her parasol.
“Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that Captain Anthony is what the French call un galant homme. I should like to think he is being treated as he deserves.”
The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of her hat) was suddenly altered into a line of seriousness. The parasol stopped swinging.