“Now,” she said, “you are angry with me. You always are when you talk that queer way. Won’t you please explain it to me, Mr. Gael?”
“No!” said he sharply. “I won’t.” And he added after a moment, “You’d better go to bed. You’re sleepy and as stupid as an owl.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. And you’ve destroyed what little superstitious belief I had left concerning something they tell little ignorant boys about a woman’s intuition. You haven’t got a bit. You’re stupid and I’m tired of you—No, Joan, I’m not. Don’t mind me. I’m only in fun. Please! Damn! I’ve hurt your feelings.”
Her lips were quivering, her eyes full. “I try so awful hard,” she said. It was a lovely, broken trail of music.
He bent over her and patted her shoulder. “Dear child! Joan, I won’t be so disagreeable again. Only, don’t you ever think of me?”
“Yes, yes; all the while I’m thinking of you. I wisht I could do more for you. Why do I make you so angry? I know I’m awful—awfully stupid and ignorant. I—I must drive you most crazy, but truly”—here she turned quickly in his arm and put her hands about his neck and laid her cheek against his shoulder—“truly, Mr. Gael, I’m awful fond of you.” Then she drew quickly away, quivered back into the other corner of her great chair, put her face to her hands. “Only—I can’t help seein’—Pierre.”
Just her tone showed him that still and ghastly youth, and again he saw the brown hand that moved. He had stood between her and that sight. The man ought to have died. He did not deserve his life nor this love of hers. Even though he had failed to kill the man, he would not fail to kill her love for him, sooner or later, thought Prosper. If only the hateful spring would give him time. He must move her from her memory. She had put her hands about his neck, she had laid her head against his shoulder, and, if it had been the action of a child, then she would not have started from him with that sharp memory of Pierre.