Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/139

with a strong loathing that never quite died out to the day of his own death; and Alison’s regular letters were more of a help than anyone could have imagined. She was so sane and comprehending; she wrote to him whenever she had his address; and he answered her letters faithfully. Though he did not tell her all—how could he?—by reason of his promise, she heard many things that would otherwise have been hidden from her. He expected a letter from her by the next mail. . . . Dear Alison! . . . But—Liane. She couldn’t really care—she surely couldn’t. He would have felt it coming. That day on the rocks—but it was only play.

He would go away. She was such a child, such a little, soft child, she would forget easily, and only remember their good comradeship. . . .

He was still thinking about her when he saw Charbonnel coming towards him. He was conscious of a sudden unpleasant revulsion, and could give no reason for it.

“Bonjour, Charbonnel! You’re early?” he said cheerfully.

Charbonnel’s manner was curt and grave. “Bonjour, m'sieur,” he said. Tony’s eyebrows went up, he was not used to being addressed with as much ceremony, but he did not speak, and after a short neutral pause the other went on, his French clearer cut and more precise than usual.

“You have been making love to my daughter.”

Tony squared his jaw; he was uneasy and annoyed. “Eh bien?”

“Mais, au contraire, ce n’est pas bien du tout, m’sieur. Qu’allez vous faire?”

For a second the beach and the green bay swung before Tony’s eyes; he felt like a wild beast in a trap. Then he recovered, angry but calm.

“It seems that you insult your daughter,” he said.