Page:Middle Aged Love Stories (IA middleagedlove00bacorich).djvu/184



"Mais, Mlle. Sabine, ce n'est pas possible; zis is in fon zat you talk—"

"Indeed, it is not, monsieur; I'm in earnest. You see, I'm at home"—her voice fell, and she paused a moment—"I'm quite safe here. If I should get sick in—in England, who'd take care of me? It is not as if I were young and strong; it is not as if Miss Ellsworth was to be with me always. And I can't speak French or German, and—and all these steamer accidents frighten me terribly! I just lie awake nights imagining—"

"Mais, mais, Mlle. Sabine—"

His startled, tired face was too much for her: he was too exhausted to adjust himself to this sudden turn, and some instinct warned her to go straight ahead and say it all, before he had time to notice her dark-ringed eyes and nervous, broken voice.

"Don't you see, monsieur, what I'm trying to say? " she asked quickly. "