But at the sun-dial he insisted further, always gentle and apologetic,
but always bent on having an answer to his question.
"You are not going to marry him?" he asked.
"Who told you I was?"
"No one."
"Oh!"
"Well, _are_ you?"
His head fairly swam as he looked at her in the full moonlight. "What
made you think of it?" she returned.
"Tommy--told me not to interrupt you--and him."
"Well--it's true."
He was young, and French, and she was beautiful and he was desperately
in love with her. Kneeling suddenly on the damp grass, he buried his
face in his arms as they lay limply across the sun-dial. There was a
long pause. He did not sob, he was quite still, but every line of him
proclaimed unspeakable agony.
"Poor boy," she said gently.
Then he rose. "I am not a boy," he declared, his chin twitching but his
voice firm, "and I love you. He is old and--_c'est un vieux roue_. I at
least am young and I have lived a clean life."
He asked her no question, but she paused to consider. "I know, I
understand," he continued, "you hate this life, you are bored and sick
of it all; you do not love your mother. _Mon Dieu, ne pas pouvoir aimer
sa mere!_ And you want to get away.
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