“Well, it’s an engagement,” said Margot excitedly. “And the terms are better than I’ve ever been offered; it’s every night for three months—at twice my usual salary.”
Jean sprang forward and caught both her hands; it was months since he had looked at her with such delight.
“Oh, but I’m glad, Margot!” he said, “and to-morrow we will celebrate the occasion. I will take you out and you shall dine as you have never dined before, and then we’ll go to the Opera, and hear the big women sing, women who will one day listen to you—they will have nothing but a little squeak then and a grand manner, and you will have all the melody and all the strength of all the world in that little white throat of yours.”
Margot flushed up to her eyes with pleasure; her throat was not really white, it was rather brown, but the programme was splendid.
“How pleased you are, Jean,” she said wonderingly. “I did not know you would be so pleased.”
“Oh, I’m not only glad,” said Jean, stopping in front of her with shining eyes, “I’m relieved. Just think! you have got back what I took away from you and more! Ah! if you knew how bitterly I have been feeling all you have done for me. Couldn’t you see I was almost ashamed to look at you?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently. His selfishness fell away from him; she was his comrade again, his good, kind little comrade with whom he lived on equal terms, and whom he would die for rather than wrong. Margot wrenched herself free from him; to Jean’s surprise a cloud had come into her eyes.
“So that was it,” she said slowly. “I see!” She turned back to the piano and began to pick up the music Jean’s impulsive movement had flung to the floor; he could not see her face.
“Now you no longer owe me anything,” said Margot.
Jean gave a long sigh of relief.