THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
a darker depth of settled melancholy. There was a fierceness and wildness, too, but it was distant, hidden, and self-contained; at bay, only with nothing of aggressiveness for immediate apprehension or alarm. Instead, there was a reserved dignity and aloofness which spoke of a nice sense of a delicate situation. He made no move to draw near her, but stood in the narrow cabin door, hat in hand.
“Madame is weary?” he said. “If you will permit—” And then he searched the cabin, a question in his eyes.
“The señorita, madame?” he asked.
Mistress Clerke sighed wearily. “I am alone, monsieur. She came frozen with terror—and fled again—”
“You alone!”
“I can only crave your pity.”
He peered around at the dingy surroundings. “I am bereaved, madame. This cabin is not the San Isidro. ’Twere better, more cleanly. I am sorry. I had come to order it to your comfort. See. I have brought your bedding and belongings from the San Isidro. In a moment, if you
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