“Tiens!” she cried fretfully. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve always told stories myself, until—until Leigh killed that man. Now, I’m not telling stories. I suppose I can believe that you meant to do something—something queer. That’s what they’ve all done to me since I came. I don’t know why you’re here—I don’t care! C’est fini—I’m done with you all!”
Virginia started. She remembered William’s words.
“I came because you’re ill. I want to help you, to make you more comfortable. That’s really all I came for, Fanchon. I’m sorry you feel so toward us—toward me.”
Fanchon shook back her hair and looked at the other girl curiously, her eyes darkening and changing wonderfully.
“How pretty she is,” Virginia thought, “and how wretched.”
But Fanchon did not speak. For a while she only studied Virginia. At last she spoke slowly, twisting the coverlet.
“Were you in court?” she asked.
Virginia shook her head. Fanchon’s eyes held hers, with that fierce, dark, challenging look.
“But you know my story?”
“Yes, I’ve heard it,” Virginia reluctantly answered.