Let me lead you to the fire and bid you
good-night."
Her finger tips met mine as we walked back together, but the touch was
as remote as the brushing of the pine boughs on my cheek. Yet when I
would have handed her her blanket and turned away, she detained me.
"Sit with me a little longer, monsieur," she begged. "I--I think I am
afraid of the woods to-night. Let us sit here a while."
I could not grasp her mood, but there was nothing for me but to yield
to it. I made her as comfortable as possible, and saw that the fire
was kept alight; then I sat near her. I was tired, but time went
swiftly. My mind would not have given my body rest, even had I lain
down.
In time the woman leaned toward me. "There is--there is no woman who
will suffer from this?" she asked slowly.
I stirred the fire. "I have no wife, mademoiselle."
"I did not mean that. There is no woman who--who cares for you?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"And you--and you, monsieur? There is no one whom you are giving up?"
I answered slowly. "Mademoiselle," I said, "you are a strangely wise
woman. You know the value of reticence,--something few women seem to
know. We have talked of many things, of ambition, of justice, of
generosity, but never, never of love.
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