He sank back on the bed, sighing a little as though exhausted. Instantly Solange bent over him, frightened.
“Is that all?” she heard him mutter.
Slowly she stooped until her glimmering hair swept around his face and her lips met his.
“Méchant!” she breathed, softly. “That is not all. There is also—this!”
Her lips clung to his.
Finally she straightened up and arranged her hair, smiling down at him, her cheeks flushed delicately and her eyes wonderfully soft.
“Morgan la fée!” said De Launay. “My witch—my fairy lady!”
Solange kissed him lightly on the forehead and rose.
“We must be getting ready to go,” she said. “It will be a hard trip, I am afraid. But we shall get you down to the town and there is enough money left to keep you in the hospital until you are well 311 again. And I shall find work until everything is all right again.”
De Launay stared at her. “Hasn’t Sucatash given you that note?”