He could picture her so well––waiting for a wire that would never come.
He hated Ashton at that moment. His brows almost met above his eyes in a scowl as he went up to the bureau and asked for his bill. The smiling French girl sobered a little meeting his gaze; for once she did not dare to smile or dimple; she gave him his account silently.
“Ah, but they are funny, these English;” she told her father afterwards. “To-day he had no smile, the tall monsieur––not even one little smile!”
She watched Micky across the lounge with interested eyes as he sat down at one of the tables and proceeded to write a letter. It took him a long time, and twice she saw that he tore up what he had written and flung it into the wastepaper basket, but at last he had finished, and getting up, stalked away.
Celeste ventured out then––there was nobody about, and tiptoeing across the lounge, took the torn papers from the paper-basket. They were torn across and across, but on one or two slips the writing was visible, and she carried them back with her to the shelter of the bureau.
She spread them out on the desk before her, carefully piecing them together. She knew English quite well, and she soon made out one sentence:––
“It is not that I do not love you––I have never loved you better than at this moment––but....”
Celeste was sentimental. She gave a big sigh of sympathy for the big Englishman. “No wonder he has no smile!” she told herself. “C’est si triste!”