For indeed her nerve had given out, and the tears, at first assumed, grew real. She sobbed on, her head in her hands.
"You're not going?—oh—Pierrot! ... don't go ... Mon Dieu! ... Mon Dieu! ... I didn't mean ... I only ... tease ... oh! unkind..." she choked on the word.
McTaggart's heart began to soften.
"Why! Fantine ... why—my dear ...! I'm not cross ... honour bright! But it's getting deuced late, you know ... there ... there ... don't cry."
He soothed her like a fractious child.
"You go to bed—-you're dog-tired. That's it—I'm a selfish ass! ..." He tried to thrust the thought aside of what was really troubling her.
And in his friendly voice she read the failure of her deep-laid plans, conscious too that their early return had thrown out the scheme of time. Well, it was over—no! postponed...
She lifted her tear-stained face, oddly swayed between relief and infinite discouragement.
"Good night, Pierrot—I'm ... so tired! I'll go to bed—you're quite right. But come and see me very soon. Promise, Pierrot."
He smiled at her.