“Oh, I want to go there!” she cried again.  “I want to go there—­and rest—­and forget everything!” She turned upon him with a sudden bitter resentment.  “Why do you tell me things like that?” she cried.  “Oh yes, I know.  I asked you, but—­can’t you see?  To hide one’s self away in a place like that!” she said.  “To let the sun warm you and the trade-winds blow away—­all that had ever tortured you!  Just to rest and be at peace!” She turned her eyes to him once more.  “You needn’t be afraid that you have failed to make me see your island!  I see it.  I feel it.  It doesn’t need many words.  I can shut my eyes and I am there.  But it was a little cruel.  Oh, I know, I asked for it.  It’s like the garden of the Hesperides, isn’t it?”

“Very like it,” said Ste. Marie, “because there are oranges—­groves of them. (And they were the golden apples, I take it.) Also, it is very far away from the world, and the people live in complete and careless ignorance of how the world goes on.  Emperors and kings die, wars come and go, but they hear only a little faint echo of it all, long afterward, and even that doesn’t interest them.”

“I know,” she said.  “I understand.  Didn’t you know I’d understand?”

“Yes,” said he, nodding.  “I suppose I did.  We—­feel things rather alike, I suppose.  We don’t have to say them all out.”

“I wonder,” she said, in a low voice, “if I’m glad or sorry.”  She stared under her brows at the man beside her.  “For it is very probable that when we have left La Lierre you and I will never meet again.  I wonder if I’m—­”

For some obscure reason she broke off there and turned her eyes away, and she remained without speaking for a long time.  Her mind, as she sat there, seemed to go back to that southern island, and to its peace and loveliness, for Ste. Marie, who watched her, saw a little smile come to her lips, and he saw her eyes half close and grow soft and tender as if what they saw were very sweet to her.  He watched many different expressions come upon the girl’s face and go again, but at last he seemed to see the old bitterness return there and struggle with something wistful and eager.

“I envy you your wide wanderings,” she said, presently.  “Oh, I envy you more than I can find any words for.  Your will is the wind’s will.  You go where your fancy leads you, and you’re free—­free.  We have wandered, you know,” said she, “my father and I. I can’t remember when we ever had a home to live in.  But that is—­that is different—­a different kind of wandering.”

“Yes,” said Ste. Marie.  “Yes, perhaps.”  And within himself he said, with sorrow and pity, “Different, indeed!”

As if at some sudden thought the girl looked up at him quickly.  “Did that sound regretful?” she asked.  “Did what I say sound—­disloyal to my father?  I didn’t mean it to.  I don’t want you to think that I regret it.  I don’t.  It has meant being with my father.  Wherever he has gone I have gone with him, and if anything ever has been—­unpleasant, I was willing, oh, I was glad, glad to put up with it for his sake and because I could be with him.  If I have made his life a little happier by sharing it, I am glad of everything.  I don’t regret.”