for him. And
then--what?

His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little
forward. Well--what then? His brain would not answer him, save only
with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed
shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly
at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of
tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite
evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be--a
fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last
night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night
that this enchantment had fallen upon him--and now it possessed him,
mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out
again--and suddenly the laugh died on his lips.

He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He
turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about
Marie-Louise--since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since
then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had
called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while
ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten.

"Jean"--she was speaking in a low, anxious voice--"it's--it's not true,
is it, Jean?"

The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips,
that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled
lips of that dream statue, were quivering now.

Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in
clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with
little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise
had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the
witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober--yes,
that was it--more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and--

"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not
hear me? Jean--it isn't true, is it?"

"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I
do not know what you are talking about."

"The beacon, Jean"--she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few
minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen
for herself, and to be very careful of it because--because"--her voice
broke suddenly--"because she said that you had given it to her.
Jean--it's not true, is