the crying of a weak woman: these were heartrending sounds, like the sobbing of a man who has never before known tears.
"Jack—perhaps I've done something wrong—"
He stammered again: "I didn't dream I was hurting you—"
Then light broke upon him.
He said: "It's because you don't want to be treated like a silly girl; eh, Jack?"
But to complete his astonishment she moaned: "N-n-no! It's b-b-because you—you n-n-never do t-treat me like a g-g-girl, P-P-Pierre!"
He groaned heartily: "Well, I'll be damned!"
And because he was thoughtful he strode away, staring at the floor. It was then that he saw it, small and crumpled on the floor. He picked it up—a glove of the softest leather. He carried it back to Jacqueline.
"What's this?"
"Wh-wh-what?"
"This glove I found on the floor?"
The sobs decreased at once—broke out more violently—and then she sprang up from the bunk, face suffused, and eyes timidly seeking his with upward glances.
"Pierre, I've acted a regular chump. Are you out with me?"
"Not a bit, old-timer. But about this glove?"
"Oh, that's one of mine."
She took it and slipped it into the bosom of her shirt—the calm blue eye of Pierre noted.
