“I never did.”
Yvonne was out of humor. “Oh,” she cried, petulantly, “you are very cold—you Americans—like ice.”
“Because we don’t run after Sarah?”
“Because you are a nation of business, and—”
“And brains,” said Gethryn, drily.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Gethryn looked at the girl. She lay with her face turned from him.
“Hélène!” No answer. “Yvonne—Mademoiselle!” No answer. “It’s two o’clock.”
A slight impatient movement of the head.
“Good night.” Gethryn rose. “Good night,” he repeated. He waited for a moment. “Good night, Yvonne,” he said, for the third time.
She turned slowly toward him, and as he looked down at her he felt a tenderness as for a sick child.