love for his sailor-life, or simply the fear of a refusal, as Sylvestre had hinted, why, all these objections would disappear, after a frank, fair understanding between them.  His fond smile might return, which had charmed and won her the winter before, and all would be settled.  This hope gave her strength and courage, and sweetened her impatience.  From afar, things always appear so easy and simple to say and to do.

This visit of Yann’s fell by chance at a convenient hour.  She was sure that her father, who was sitting and smoking, would not get up to walk part of the way with him; so in the empty passage she might have her explanation out with him.

But now that the time had come, such boldness seemed extreme.  The bare idea of looking him face to face at the foot of those stairs, made her tremble; and her heart beat as if it would break.  At any moment the door below might open, with the squeak she knew so well, to let him out!

“No, no, she never would dare; rather would she die of longing and sorrow, than attempt such an act.”  She already made a few return steps towards the back of her room, to regain her seat and work.  But she stopped again, hesitating and afraid, remembering that to-morrow was the sailing day for Iceland, and that this occasion stood alone.  If she let it slip by, she would have to wait through months upon months of solitude and despair, languishing for his return—­losing another whole summer of her life.

Below, the door opened—­Yann was coming out!

Suddenly resolute, she rushed downstairs, and tremblingly stood before him.

“Monsieur Yann, I—­I wish to speak to you, please.”

“To me, Mademoiselle Gaud?” queried he, lowering his voice and snatching off his hat.

He looked at her fiercely, with a hard expression in his flashing eyes, and his head thrown back, seeming even to wonder if he ought to stop for her at all.  With one foot ready to start away, he stood straight up against the wall, as if to be as far apart from her as possible, in the narrow passage, where he felt imprisoned.

Paralyzed, she could remember nothing of what she had wished to say; she had not thought he would try and pass on without listening to her.  What an affront!

“Does our house frighten you, Monsieur Yann?” she asked, in a dry, odd tone—­not at all the one she wished to use.

He turned his eyes away, looking outside; his cheeks blazed red, a rush of blood burned all his face, and his quivering nostrils dilated with every breath, keeping time with the heavings of his chest, like a young bull’s.

“The night of the ball,” she tried to continue, “when we were together, you bade me good-bye, not as a man speaks to an indifferent person.  Monsieur Yann, have you no memory?  What have I done to vex you?”

The nasty western breeze blowing in from the street ruffled his hair and the frills of Gaud’s coiffe, and behind them a door was banged furiously.  The passage was not meet for talking of serious matters in.  After these first phrases, choking, Gaud remained speechless, feeling her head spin, and without ideas.  They still advanced towards the street door; he seemed so anxious to get away, and she was so determined not to be shaken off.