She did not start, but merely stopped and raised her eyes to his face slowly. There was no surprise, no emotion of any sort to be seen, only that quaint gravity with which he was so familiar. She stopped and waited, as she always stopped and waited, ready, it seemed, to take her cue from what was about to happen. She might never have seen him before, but then, he thought, she always met him so—as if she had never seen him before.... She did not speak; only waited. He was inarticulate, abashed, nonplussed. Suddenly it seemed to him that there was nothing to say, nothing that could be said. He had been guilty of conduct which removed him forever from her life, which was unforgivable. There was an impulse to turn and to hurry away from her, but he repressed it.... He must do something, say something. “I’m ashamed,” he said, clumsily. “I’ve been miserable.... I had to find you and tell you.... I—What can I say? It was wicked—wicked....” He could go no farther, could only search her face with his eyes for some reflection of her thoughts, for some sign that he might hope for pardon. She did not reply; there was no change in her expression, only that unfathomable gravity and that air of suspended judgment. “Last night I tried to find you.... I sat and waited, but you did not come. I couldn’t go to sleep until I had begged you to forgive me.... I don’t deserve to be forgiven. What I did—what I said, was unforgivable.... Oh, Andree!...” There was a little pause, then she said, “You have been sad?” “Yes.” “And I also,” she said, not reproachfully. “I—Never before have I known what it was to suffer—and I have suffered. It was right that I should. I deserved punishment.” Even here the Puritan in him obtruded itself. “And you were so good, so sweet, so wonderful.... I know all about it now—and I was suspicious and brutal.... I was jealous, too. But I didn’t know I was jealous.... When I thought you were not good, it seemed to me that nothing in the world could be good. Do you understand?... But there’s no excuse for me. I should have known, and I should have trusted you.... I didn’t even give you a chance to explain....” “Oh, you speak ver’ fast. I cannot onderstan’ all.... But you have not been happy—no.... It is to be seen.... At first I do not onderstan’, and I am ver’ sad and hurt—oh, ver’ sad. When I make to cross the _pont_ I look down at the water—yes.... And then I say it is some mistake.... I say something have happen I do not know of and it makes you to be not like Monsieur Ken, but ver’ hurt and miserable and—how you say?—upset? Yes. I say, also, that I love Monsieur Ken and always that I am _fidèle_.... So what could it be?... If, then, it is nothing, only some mistake, then I am much sorry.... Not sorry for me, monsieur, who have done no wrong, but for you, who are mos’ unhappy.... It is so. My heart it makes to weep for you because you suffer....” “Andree!...”