Not _you_!"
"Why not!" asked Belle practically. "You ought to talk it out to some
one, and if Harvey insists on being a fool that's his own fault."
For all the remainder of that sunny morning Sara Lee talked what was in
her heart. And Belle--poor, romantic, starved Belle--heard and
thrilled. She made buttonholes as she listened, but once or twice a
new tone in Sara Lee's voice caused her to look up. Here was a new
Sara Lee, a creature of vibrant voice and glowing eyes; and Belle was
not stupid. She saw that it was Henri whose name brought the deeper note.
Sara Lee had stopped with her recall, had stopped and looked about the
room with its shiny new furniture and had shivered. Belle bent over her
work.
"Why don't you go back?" she asked.
Sara Lee looked at her piteously.
"How can I? There is Harvey. And the society would not send me again.
It's over, Belle. All over."
After a pause Belle said: "What's become of Henri? He hasn't written,
has he?"
Sara Lee got up and went to the window.
"I don't know where he is. He may be dead."
Her voice was flat and lifeless. Belle knew all that she wanted to know.
She rose and gathered up her sewing.
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