before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she
stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew,
that his soul was aflame--and it was she, not he, who dammed back the
tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally
of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he
knew, that his soul was aflame--and yet she had not repulsed him. What
did it mean? That she _cared_! But why did she laugh so lightly now,
why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she
was playing with him!

"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't
'good-bye'; that is"--she glanced at him demurely--"that is, unless
you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively
eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more
than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"--she
came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone,
was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles--"there isn't anything,
you won't let anything keep you from coming--will you?"

Keep him from Paris--from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out
boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile!
Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from--Paris! He
could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her.

"Jean!"--it was a quick, hurried exclamation, not all composure now,
and her eyes were hidden, and her face was turned away. "Jean, good
gracious, don't you hear father calling to you? Look, here he is!"

Jean swept his hand across his eyes. It was the madness upon him.
Yes, here was Monsieur Bliss beside him, and she and her father were
both talking at once. It was Paris! Always Paris that they talked of!
In a week, in ten days, he would be there. And then they had both
shaken hands with him, the grey eyes had smiled into his for an
instant, and she had sprung from him into the automobile. It was a
daze. They had gone. He was standing in the road watching them. She
was fluttering a scarf at him, as she leaned far over the back of the
car--her voice, full-throated, was throbbing in his ears.

"_An revoir_, Jean! _Au revoir_--till Paris!"

The car disappeared over the brow of a little hill, came into sight
again as it topped the opposite rise, became a blur and then a tiny
dot, scarcely discernible, far on along the road. And still he stood
there.