Marie stood twisting her handkerchief childishly, her head downbent, and yet she had never looked less of a child in his eyes.
The little girl he had known all his life seemed suddenly to have disappeared, leaving in her place a woman who looked at him with the eyes of Marie Celeste, but without the shy admiration to which he had grown so accustomed that he never thought about it at all.
A great longing came to him to take her into his arms and tell her that she was talking nonsense, to kiss the strained look away from her face and the severe line of her pretty mouth into smiles, to tell her that they were going to begin all over again and be happy— that the last weeks had been just a bad dream from which he had 212 awakened, but his pride and some new dignity about her prevented him.
This was not the Marie Celeste he had known. She had escaped him while he had been looking away from her for his happiness.
After a moment he asked stiffly:
"Supposing—supposing it were possible—to do as you say—for each to get our freedom again . . . what would you do?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know!"
Miss Chester came to the door.
"Marie, I've been looking everywhere for you—I've lost one of my knitting needles."