ing into her eyes. 'He is solitary, but not alone; like an angel in that, too.'
'Yes; that's it. And I like it so much better than angels in choirs, don't you? Solitary angels—but all singing to something.—Why do I always have such lovely thoughts when I am with you, Marthe?'
'Because you are you, Jill.'
They were sitting hand in hand, looking at each other, and the warbler had again begun to sing over their heads. 'Tell me, Marthe,' said Jill, contemplating her friend, 'have you had lovers?'
Without start or blush, Marthe Ludérac looked back at her. 'Why do you ask?' she questioned.
Madame de Lamouderie had not told her. 'I heard something—in Buissac,' Jill found.
Marthe continued to look at her. 'In Buissac?' she repeated.
'Yes.' Jill nodded. 'Nothing very definite, dear Marthe. But enough to make me—wonder.'
'It would give you great pain if it were true?'
Jill tried to think. It had already given her great pain. 'I should not be less fond of you, but it would give me pain.'
'Why?' asked Marthe Ludérac.
'Why?' Jill repeated. It was strange to be asked why. 'Perhaps because I think of you as set apart.'
'As too unhappy ever to be loved, you mean?'
'No;—no, Marthe. As too beautiful.' Jill struggled to make her thought clear to herself as well as to Marthe. 'Too beautiful to be loved—and then left.
