Moreover, Marie was watching, sharp as a little hawk.
“Why, M'sieu,” she said, and there was a baffling note to the voice this time, “why,—you wish me to have this?”
“Yes, Ma'amselle,” said McElroy simply.
The girl stooped and took it from him, and for a moment her hand lay against his palm, a smooth warm hand.
“And you wish me to wear it?” she asked.
“If it shall please you.”
“Then it shall please me,” she said quite easily, “and I thank you.”
McElroy turned away and walked back to the factory, and all the way he did not know what he had done. It had been an impulse, and he had rushed to its fulfilling without a thought. Had he bungled in giving her a garment where De Courtenay had played on a wind-harp in giving her a little red flower?
He was hot and cold alternately, and the memory of that momentary frown came turn and turn with that of the gentle manner in which she had reached down for the lifted gift.
And Maren Le Moyne?