“Aline!” her uncle’s voice arrested her. “Where are you going?”
“But we do not know where he is to be found.”
“Who wants to find the scoundrel?”
“We may never see him again.”
“That is most fervently to be desired.”
Aline said “Ouf!” and went out by the window.
He called after her, imperiously commanding her return. But Aline—dutiful child—closed her ears lest she must disobey him, and sped light-footed across the lawn to the avenue there to intercept the departing Andre-Louis.
As he came forth wrapped in gloom, she stepped from the bordering trees into his path.
“Aline!” he cried, joyously almost.
“I did not want you to go like this. I couldn’t let you,” she explained herself. “I know him better than you do, and I know that his great soft heart will presently melt. He will be filled with regret. He will want to send for you, and he will not know where to send.”