The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it down.
“That will do, thank you,” he said. “Give me the whole packet.” She wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar note, the last he had in the world.
“How much of this paper have you?” he asked. The girl looked under the counter. “Six packets,” she said. “Six, and a few sheets over.”
“I will take it all. But keep it for me, for a week, or perhaps a fortnight, will you?” He did not need all this paper to write letters upon, yet he meant to buy all the paper of this sort that the shop contained. But he must get money from Louis Trudel--he would speak about it to-morrow.
“Monsieur does not want me to sell even the loose sheets?”
“No. I like the paper, and I will take it all.”
Her heart was beating hard. All this man did had peculiar significance to her. His look seemed to say: “Do not fear. I will tell you things.”
She gave him the parcel and the change, and he turned to go. “You read much?” he asked, almost casually, yet deeply interested in the charm and intelligence of her face.
“Why, yes, Monsieur,” she answered quickly. “I am always reading.”
He did not speak at once. He was wondering whether, in this primitive place, such a mind and nature would be the wiser for reading; whether it were not better to be without a mental aspiration, which might set up false standards.
“What are you reading now?” he asked, with his hand on the door.
“Antony and Cleopatra, also Enoch Arden,” she answered, in good English, and without accent.
His head turned quickly towards her, but he did not speak.
“Enoch Arden is terrible,” she added eagerly. “Don’t you think so, Monsieur?”
“It is very painful,” he answered. “Good-night.” He opened the door and went out.
She ran to the door and watched him go down the street. For a little she stood thinking, then, turning to the counter, and snatching up a sheet of the paper he had bought, held it up to the light. She gave a cry of amazement.
She thought of the start he gave when he looked at the water-mark; she thought of the look on his face when he said he would buy all this paper she had.
“Who was Kathleen?” she whispered, as though she was afraid some one would hear. “Who was Kathleen!” she said again resentfully.