She was not the rain-beaten little
partridge that had passed in tragic bedragglement through his
mind. Storm had not touched her. Her cheeks were soft with the
warm flush of long hours of sleep. When she came in, her lips
greeting him with a little smile, all that he had built up for
himself in the hours of the night crumbled away in dust. Again he
forgot for a moment that she was St. Pierre's wife. She was woman,
and as he looked upon her now, the most adorable woman in all the
world.
"You are better this morning," she said. Real pleasure shone in
her eyes. She had left the door open, so that the sun filled the
room. "I think the storm helped you. Wasn't it splendid?"
David swallowed hard. "Quite splendid," he managed to say. "Have
you seen Bateese this morning?"
A little note of laughter came into her throat. "Yes. I don't
think he liked it. He doesn't understand why I love storms. Did
you sleep well, M'sieu Carrigan?"
"An hour or two, I think. I was worrying about you. I didn't like
the thought that I had turned you out into the storm. But it
doesn't seem to have touched you."
"No. I was there--quite comfortable." She nodded to the forward
bulkhead of the cabin, beyond the wardrobe closets and the piano.
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