poise, the rapt burning in his eyes, she seemed all glorious with that play of colour now that was even in the pulsing throat. But the next instant she was smiling radiantly.
"Thank you, Jean," she said naively. "I will take it very gladly, and I will always keep it. Father will have a cast of it made at once, and—" she stopped suddenly, turning quickly toward the door. "Listen!" she said. "That's the motor, isn't it? Marie-Louise must have met it on the road."
An automobile had come to a stop by the side of the house; and, a moment later, a girl's voice, high-pitched in sarcasm, reached them.
"Ma foi! Fancy! She owns the house! What an aristocrat! No doubt she will expect mademoiselle and monsieur to invite her to table with them next! Oh, là, là, but you have lots to learn, ma petite paysanne!"
"Oh, let her alone, Nanette!" exclaimed a man's voice sharply. "She has done nothing but answer your own questions, except"—with a laugh—"that she has ridden on the front seat!"
It seemed to come with a shock to Jean that snatch of conversation, as something cold, chilling the fire that but an instant gone had been raging within him. It was an arraignment of himself, a slap in the face, sharply, curtly given, a reminder that for all his temerity he was—a fisherman. Myrna had gone to the front door. He swept his hand in a dazed way across his eyes, then straightened suddenly—it was a spell that he had been under. Nor was the spell gone; but now, at least, he was in control of himself. He walked across the room to where Myrna stood.
"Mademoiselle," he offered quietly, "can I help with the baggage?"
