stunned 98 by some sudden and terrible accusation—for a moment only. Then, in an unsteady voice:

98

“Rue, darling. You must not feel lonely and frightened. I’ll do anything in the world for you. Don’t you know it?”

She nodded.

“I tell you,” he said in that even, concentrated voice of his which scarcely moved his narrow lips, “I’m just crazy about you. You’re my own little wife. You’re all I care about. If I can’t make you happy somebody ought to shoot me.”

She tried to smile; her full lips trembled; a single tear, brimming, fell on the cloth.

“I—don’t mean to be silly.... But—Brookhollow seems—ended—forever....”

“It’s only forty miles,” he said with heavy joviality. “Shall we turn around and go back?”

She glanced up at him with an odd expression, as though she hoped he meant it; then her little mechanical smile returned, and she dried her eyes naïvely.

“I don’t know why I cannot seem to get used to being married,” she said. “I never thought that getting married would make me so—so—lonely.”

“Let’s talk about art,” he suggested. “You’re crazy about art and you’re going to Paris. Isn’t that fine.”

“Oh, yes––”

“Sure, it’s fine. That’s where art grows. Artville is Paris’ other name. It’s all there, Rue—the Loove, the palaces, the Latin Quarter, the statues, the churches, and all like that.”

“What is the Louvre like?” she asked, tremulously, determined to be brave.

As he had seen the Louvre only from the outside, his imaginary description was cautious, general, and brief. 99

99

After a silence, Rue asked whether he thought that their suitcases were quite safe.

“Certainly,” he smiled. “I checked them.”

“And you’re sure they are safe?”

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