“Yes—but preferable as a friend rather than an enemy. I don’t know anything about her, but I wouldn’t mind wagering that she has a dash of Corsican blood in her. Anyway, she will look after you all right till Anne Brennan writes.”
“And if no letter comes?” suggested Jean. “Or supposing Lady Anne can’t have me? We’re rather taking things for granted, you know.”
His face clouded, but cleared again almost instantly.
“She will have you. Anne would never refuse a request of mine. If not, you must come on to me, and I’ll make other arrangements,”—vaguely. “I’ll let the next boat go, and stay in Paris till I hear from you. But I can’t wait here any longer.”
He paused, then broke out hurriedly:
“I ought never to have come to this place. It’s haunted. I know you’ll understand—you always do understand, I think, you quiet child—why I must go.”
And Jean, looking with the clear eyes of unhurt youth into the handsome, grief-ravaged face, was suddenly conscious of a shrinking fear of that mysterious force called love, which can make, and so swiftly, terribly unmake the lives of men and women.