He went back to her slowly, almost sullenly; partly in surrender to his own impulse, partly in response to her call. But he did not again sit down beside her. "Yes," he said. "You are quite safe, mademoiselle. I shall not be out of earshot. You are quite safe."
"Why did you go away?"
"Away?" he faltered.
"Are you afraid of me?" gently.
"Afraid of you?" He tried to speak gaily.
"Pray," she said in a queer, stiff tone, "do not repeat all my words. I asked if you were afraid of me, Monsieur Roger?"
"No," he faltered, "but--but I thought that you would rather be alone."
"I?" in a tone that went to poor Roger's heart. "I, who have told you that I am always alone? Who have told you that I have not"--her voice shook--"a friend--one real friend in the world!"
"You are tired now," Roger faltered, finding no other words than those he had used before.
"Not one real friend!" she repeated piteously. "Not one!"