"I don't see why. Your father took a very sensible view. 'Why shouldn't twenty hop because one has hooked it?' he said."
"Poor old dad! He has had to sacrifice himself all his life."
"Don't you think you're making too much of the death of one man? Suppose we hadn't taken Peridot with us? We couldn't possibly have approached the reef, and twelve people would have gone under."
"Ten were strangers, and one cannot grieve for all the people who die around us. But father knew Mr. and Mrs. Carmac years ago. Didn't he tell you that?"
"Then you may be sure he is greatly upset. Now, Lorry, if there is any talk of dancing when I appear, help my excuses by saying that I ought to rest. In one sense I'm not really tired; in another I could fling myself down in a dark corner and weep my eyes out."
"Your eyes are too pretty to spoil in that way," said Tollemache. "I'll give Mère Pitou the tip, and she'll fix things, I have no doubt."
But Yvonne was not pressed to dance. She was so pale, the eyes that Tollemache deemed too attractive that they should be marred by weeping were so dilated and luminous with unshed tears, that these big-hearted Bretons sympathized with her, and she was soon permitted to escape to her own room.
Father and daughter exchanged few words. She supplied a brief account of the doctor's view of the injured, and he only said:
"Thus far things are progressing well. Tomorrow morning I'm going to Forbes's place, at Concarneau, for a few days. Tollemache and you can help Mr. Raymond in his negotiations with the authorities. Mr. Carmac was an American, by birth, if not by domicile; so it is probable that his relatives will wish the body to be embalmed and taken to the United States. I would advise Mr. Raymond to consult a notary, because French procedure differs essentially from American methods. I've told Lorry about our altered plans. Perhaps we three can take a combined trip to Paris after Christmas. Goodnight, Sweetheart. Sleep well, and don't meet tomorrow's cares halfway."
Tollemache heard all that passed. Why, he knew not, but he found himself regretting that they were not leaving Pont Aven by the first train in accord with Ingersoll's original intent. He was more than ever conscious of that invisible wall which was now casting its shadow on their cheery intimacy. Yvonne would never again be a demure Breton maid or straight-legged, long-haired American schoolgirl. She had become a woman in an hour. Life had flung wide its portals, and the prospect thus unfolded had saddened her inexpressibly.