“No, you want the gayety and the excitement and the crowds of pretty women and the theatres. We are dull and simple here, yet I think we are good and happy and honest and true. And, then, you are all absorbed in money-making. Uncle Gaspard said you would be a rich man before you died. But they do dreadful things in New Orleans, and drink and carouse. You may be murdered some day, and then what will all the money be worth?” She looked so aggrieved, so bewitching in her regret that, after all, was half assumed, though she would not confess it to herself even, that he had much ado to keep tranquil. “Ma’m’selle, I go because I see it is quite necessary. A man who hopes for advancement must study the interest of those who have his welfare at heart and can favor him in many ways. Then I hold the key to much of the business at that end of the line, and I do not see who there is to put in my place. It is true the life here is simple and delightful. There one has a good deal of sharp dealing to fight against, since he must meet men of all governments and all sorts of schemes. If M’sieu Chouteau could go—but he cannot. Do not for a moment think it is the gayety and the pretty women.” “Then you _will_ go. There is no use in arguing.” She turned away. How distractingly pretty she was this morning in the old garden, herself a part of its bloom! Over the gate she had given him a rose, and renewed friendship after a dispute. “I must go. I have passed my word. Renée—” in a beseeching tone. She half turned, like a bird who wonders whether he will fly or not, but her lowered eyes had a laugh in them. “Renée, you know I love you——” “No, I do not.” He could see the swelling of her bosom that sent a throb up to her throat. “You do nothing for me now. You are off with the men. You are—oh, so very charming to the girls!” with a cutting little emphasis. “And you are always talking to Uncle Gaspard about business——” “And last night you ran away to bed without even a good-night!” with upbraiding in his voice. “Oh, _did_ you miss me? I never supposed you would. I was tired sitting there, thinking my own thoughts.” “Now we have plenty of time; tell them to me,” and his persuasive tone penetrated her inmost being. What foolish things could she repeat? Her face was scarlet. “You know now I love you. I have told you so in words. I have told it in many other ways. I confessed it to M. Denys before I went away and he bade me wait patiently. For two years I have carried you in my heart, yes, longer than that. You had your fling about other women; no one has ever moved me. Every night I said, ‘One more day has gone, and at the last I shall go back to the little girl in old St. Louis that I carried in my arms all one night when she was worn out with fatigue and hunger and cold. Renée——” “I cannot leave Uncle Denys. I have said hundreds of times I never would,” and her voice was sweet with pathos that penetrated his inmost soul.