"How is your royal American constitution?" She smiled, repeating in
excellent English one of the nonsensical phrases he was fond of using. She
tried to say it gayly, but he was not deceived, and answered seriously in
French:

"Hold on. There's something wrong. We've been sad, eh?"

"Why--er--" she began, "I--er----"

"Been worrying, I know. Too much church. Too much of that old she dragon.
Come over here and tell me about it." He led her to a bench shaded by a
friendly sycamore tree. "Now, then."

She faced him with troubled eyes, searching vainly for words and finding
nothing. The crisis had come, and she did not know how to meet it. Her red
lips trembled, her eyes grew melting, and she sat there silent and
delicious in her perplexity. Kittredge thrilled under the spell of her
beauty; he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.

"Suppose we go back a little," he said reassuringly. "About six months ago,
I think it was in January, a young chap in a fur overcoat drifted into this
old stone barn and took a turn around it. He saw the treasure and the fake
relics and the white marble French gentleman trying to get out of his
coffin. And he didn't care a hang about any of 'em until he saw you. Then
he began to take notice. The next day he came back and you sold him a
little red guidebook that told all about the twenty-five chapels and the
seven hundred and ninety-two saints. No, seven hundred and ninety-three,
for there was one saint with wonderful eyes and glorious hair and----"

"Please don't," she murmured.