Through the Wall | Page 6

that of me?" she pleaded.
"I'd rather think you a coquette than--" Again he checked himself at the sight of her trouble. He could not speak harshly to her.
"You dear child," he went on tenderly. "I'll never believe any ill of you, never. I won't even ask your reasons; but I want some encouragement, something to work for. I've got to have it. Just let me go on hoping; say that in six months or--or even a year you will be my own sweetheart--promise me that and I'll wait patiently. Can't you promise me that?"
But again she shook her head, while her eyes filled slowly with tears.
And now his face darkened. "Then you will never be my wife? Never? No matter what I do or how long I wait? Is that it?"
"That's it," she repeated with a little sob.
Kittredge rose, eying her sternly. "I understand," he said, "or rather I don't understand; but there's no use talking any more. I'll take my medicine and--good-by."
She looked at him in frightened supplication. "You won't leave me? Lloyd, you won't leave me?"
He laughed harshly. "What do you think I am? A jumping jack for you to pull a string and make me dance? Well, I guess not. Leave you? Of course I'll leave you. I wish I had never seen you; I'm sorry I ever came inside this blooming church!"
"Oh!" she gasped, in sudden pain.
"You don't play fair," he went on recklessly. "You haven't played fair at all. You knew I loved you, and--you led me on, and--this is the end of it."
"No," she cried, stung by his words, "it's not the end of it. I _won't_ be judged like that. I have played fair with you. If I hadn't I would have accepted you, for I love you, Lloyd, I love you with all my heart!"
"I like the way you show it," he answered, unrelenting.
"Haven't I helped you all these months? Isn't my friendship something?"
He shook his head. "It isn't enough for me."
"Then how about me, if I want your friendship, if I'm hungry for it, if it's all I have in life? How about that, Lloyd?" Under their dark lashes her violet eyes were burning on him, but he hardened his heart to their pleading.
"It sounds well, but there's no sense in it. I can't stand for this let-me-be-a-sister-to-you game, and I won't."
He turned away impatiently and glanced at his watch.
"Lloyd," she said gently, "come to the house to-night."
He shook his head. "Got an appointment."
"An appointment?"
"Yes, a banquet."
She looked at him in surprise. "You didn't tell me!"
"No."
She was silent a moment. "Where is the banquet?"
"At the Ansonia. It's a new restaurant on the Champs Elys��es, very swell. I didn't tell you because--well, because I didn't."
"Lloyd," she whispered, "don't go to the banquet."
"Don't go? Why, this is our national holiday. I'm down to tell some stories. I've got to go. Besides, I wouldn't come to you, anyway. What's the use? I've said all I can, and you've said 'No.' So it's all off--that's right, Alice, _it's all off_." His eyes were kinder now, but he spoke firmly.
"Lloyd," she begged, "come after the banquet."
"No!"
"I ask it for you. I--I feel that something is going to happen. Don't laugh. Look at the sky, there beyond the black towers. It's red, red like blood, and--Lloyd, I'm afraid."
Her eyes were fixed in the west with an enthralled expression, as if she saw something there besides the masses of red and purple that crowned the setting sun, something strange and terrifying. And in her agitation she took the book and pencil from the bench, and nervously, almost unconsciously wrote something on one of the fly leaves.
"Good-by, Alice," he said, holding out his hand.
"Good-by, Lloyd," she answered in a dull, tired voice, putting down the book and giving him her own little hand.
As he turned to go he picked up the volume and his eye fell on the fly leaf.
"Why," he started, "what is this?" He looked more closely at the words, then sharply at her.
"I--I'm so sorry," she stammered. "Have I spoiled your book?"
"Never mind the book, but--how did you come to write this?"
"I--I didn't notice what I wrote," she said, in confusion.
"Do you mean to say that you don't know what you wrote?"
"I don't know at all," she replied with evident sincerity.
"It's the damnedest thing I ever heard of," he muttered. And then, with a puzzled look: "See here, I guess I've been too previous. I'll cut out that banquet to-night--that is, I'll show up for soup and fish, and then I'll come to you. Do I get a smile now?"
"O Lloyd!" she murmured happily.
"I'll be there about nine."
"About nine," she repeated, and again her eyes turned anxiously to the blood-red western sky.
CHAPTER II
COQUENIL'S GREATEST CASE
After leaving Notre-Dame, Paul Coquenil directed his steps toward the prefecture of