He said: "We'll eat and forget the rest of this, if you want, Jack."
"And you ain't mad at me, Pierre?"
"Not a bit."
There was just a trace of coldness in his tone, and she knew perfectly why it was there, but she chose to ascribe it to another cause.
She explained: "You see, a woman is just about nine-tenths fool, Pierre, and has to bust out like that once in a while."
"Oh!" said Pierre, and his eyes wandered past her as though he found food for thought on the wall.
She ventured cautiously, after seeing that he was eating with appetite: "How does the pin look?"
"Why, fine."
And the silence began again.
She dared not question him in that mood, so she ventured again: "The old boy shooting left-handed— didn't he even fan the wind near you?"
"That was another bit of carelessness," said Pierre, but his smile held little of life. "He might have known that if he had shot close—by accident—I might have turned around and shot him dead—on purpose. But when a man stops thinking for a minute, he's apt to go on for a long time making a fool of himself."
"Right," she said, brightening as she felt the crisis pass away, "and that reminds me of a story about—"
"By the way, Jack, I'll wager there's a more interesting story than that you could tell me."
