Give me a
chance. I'll bring you to me. If there is a single
spark of love in your heart for me, I'll blow it into a
flame! I can do it, I tell you!" He caught her fiercely
by the shoulder.
Lucy drew back and threw out her hands. "Let me have
time to think!"
"Time? You've had a year!"
"One more day. Come again this evening----"
"This evening? I've come so often!" staring breathlessly
into her face. "It will be no use, I can see that.
Well, as you please. I'll come once more."
The young fellow in his jaunty new clothes shook as if he
had the ague. He had touched her. For one minute she
had been his!
He turned and walked quickly across the Platz.
Lucy, left alone, was full of remorse. She looked down
into her heart; she had forgotten to do it before. No,
not a spark for him to blow into a flame; not a
single warm thought of him!
The girl was ashamed of herself. He might be a cad, but
he was real; his honest love possessed him body and soul.
It was a matter of expediency to her; a thing to debate
with herself, to dally over, with paltry pros and cons.
Miss Vance came hurriedly up the street, an open letter
in her hand. Lucy ran to meet her.
"What is it? You have heard bad news?"
"I suppose we ought not to call it that. It is from
George Waldeaux. They have a son, two months old. He
tells it as a matter for rejoicing."
"Oh, yes," said Lucy feebly.
"They are at Vannes--in Brittany. He has a cough.
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