tip of her tongue to say "Yes." She checked
herself, lips apart, and her eyes became troubled.

There was something about Jack Marche that she had not been able
to understand. It occupied her--it took up a good share of her
attention, but she did not know where to begin to philosophize,
nor yet where to end. He was different from other men--that she
understood. But where was that difference?--in his clear, brown
eyes, sunny as brown streams in October?--in his serious young
face?--in his mouth, clean cut and slightly smiling under his
short, crisp mustache, burned blond by the sun? Where was the
difference?--in his voice?--in his gestures?--in the turn of his
head?

Lorraine did not know, but as often as she gave the riddle up she
recommenced it, idly sometimes, sometimes piqued that the
solution seemed no nearer. Once, the evening she had met him
after their first encounter in the forest carrefour--that evening
on the terrace when she stood looking out into the dazzling
Lorraine moonlight--she felt that the solution of the riddle had
been very near. But now, two weeks later, it seemed further off
than ever. And yet this problem, that occupied her so, must
surely be worth the solving. What was it, then, in Jack Marche
that made him what he was?--gentle, sweet-tempered, a delightful
companion--yes, a companion that she would not now know how to do
without.

And yet, at times, there came into his eyes and into his voice
something that troubled her--she could not tell why--something
that mystified and checked her, and set her thinking again on the
old, old problem that had seemed so near solution that evening on
the moonlit terrace.

That was why she started to say "Yes" to his question, and did
not, but stood with lips half parted and blue eyes troubled.

He looked at her in silence for a moment, then, with a
half-impatient gesture, turned to the river.

"Shall we sit down on the moss?" she asked, vaguely conscious
that his sympathies had, for a moment, lost touch with hers.

He followed her down the trodden foot-path to the bank of the
stream, and, when she had seated herself at the foot of a
linden-tree, he threw himself at her feet.

They were silent. He picked up a faded bunch of blue corn-flowers
which they had left there, forgotten, the day before. One by one
he broke the blossoms from the stalks and tossed them into the
water.

She, watching them floating away under the bridge, thought of the
blue b