“Must you go so early?” she asked, with a kindness in her voice which pierced me.
“Yes,” he said, looking down at her upturned face. “The tide is just right now, and this fair wind must not be lost. It will be a fine run under this moon; and Pierre has the new boat over to-night.”
“It is a good night,” she assented, peering through the open door with a gesture of gay inquiry; “and how sweet the apple-blossoms smell! Have you as good air as this, Monsieur Grande, on those western rivers of yours, or at Trois Pistoles?”
As she did not turn her head or seem to require an answer, I made none. And, indeed, I was spared the necessity, for Anderson intervened with matter of his own.
“Come down to the gate with me, won’t you?” I heard him beg in a low voice.
But for some reason Mademoiselle was not disposed to be kind that night. She drew back, and looked down pointedly at her dainty embroidered moccasins.
“Oh,” she cried lightly and aloud, with a tantalizing ring in her voice, “just think how wet the path is!”
Anderson turned away with a disappointed air, whereupon she reached out her hand imperiously for him to kiss. Then she waved him a gay bon voyage, and came back into the room with a quick lightness of step which seemed like laughter in itself. Her eyes were a dancing marvel, with some strange excitement.
“Monsieur,” she began, coming straight toward me. But I just then awoke to my purpose.
“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle and madame!” I cried, springing to my feet and hastening to the door. “I will be back in two moments; but I have a word for Monsieur Anderson before he goes.”