He took her hand again.
"Dear little goose, I am not angry," he said—"If you were to make me a 'scene' I SHOULD be angry—very angry! But you won't do that, will you? It would upset my nerves. And you are such a wise, independent little person that I feel quite safe with you. Well, now let us talk sensibly,—I've a great deal to tell you. In the first place, I'm going to Algiers."
Her lips were dry and stiff, but she managed to ask—
"When?"
"Oh, any time!—to-morrow… next day—before the week is over, certainly. There are some fine subjects out there that I want to paint—and I feel I could do good work—"
Her hand in his contracted a little,—she instinctively withdrew it… then she heard herself speaking as though it were someone else a long way off.
"When are you coming back?"
"Ah!—That's my own affair!" he answered carelessly—"In the spring perhaps,—perhaps not for a year or two—"
"Amadis!"
The name sprang from her lips like the cry of an animal wounded to death. She rose suddenly from his side and stood facing him, swaying slightly like a reed in a cruel wind.