He would
not be likely to make the mistake of interfering with people's lives a
second time. He had seen in her an instrument to be handled at will,
and had charged himself with the burden of her destiny, and now he
supposed she was about to reproach him.

"You are hysterical. That's the worst of women. They always are--more
or less. You had better go to bed, and not talk nonsense. If you were
a child only a few months ago you are not too old to be treated as one
now."

It hurt him more than it hurt her, but she would never know that. His
pulses hammered furiously as she dropped at his side with a soft rustle
of garments. Her clasped hands rested on his knee; the strong, slender
hands that had grown rough with work.

"Emile," she whispered, "can't you see that I've altered? I'm a woman
now. You said I should be one soon. I've wanted to tell you all
along, but I always hoped you had guessed."

"Perhaps I did, but I preferred that you should tell me yourself. And
since when have you become what you call 'a woman'? No, you needn't
answer. When I knew that you and Vardri had been together in my rooms,
I was certain I had not warned you without reason."

"You knew before I did myself."

"_Mon enfant_, I'm neither blind nor a fool. As they say in this
country, 'love and a cough cannot be hidden.' I was sure about Vardri,
but about you;--no, one couldn't say. When you came out here you were
a sexless creature with a brain. It did not seem likely that you would
develop into the ordinary girl with a lover."

It was the only way he could keep a hold upon himself, by keeping up a
pose of cynicism. The fragrance of her hair, the curved mouth so close
to his own, maddened him. He who could have been her lover had been
only her guardian, her taskmaster. And now she was ready to give
herself to a boy, who thought life was a romance, and who would
probably sit at her feet reading poetry while they both starved.

"You have been together often?"

Her head drooped. "Yes. I should have told you before."

"What plans have you made? I suppose it will be the usual mad scheme
of running away. I ought to betray you, of course, but--"

"We haven't arranged anything yet; there is plenty of time."

"Plenty of time--Mon Dieu!" the man rasped out. "How like you,
Fatalite! What a pair! Vardri always living _au clair de la lune_,
and you half asleep, and full of illusions. _Les illusions sont les
hirondelle