"Well, that's queer she should speak of _him_, isn't it, Brian? How did
you come to think of Herter?" Father Beckett wanted to know.
"_Was_ it he?" I insisted.
"No. But--you'd better tell her, Brian. I guess you'll have to."
"There isn't much to tell, really," Brian said. "It was only that
oculist chap Herter told you about--Dr. Henri Chrevreuil. He's been
working at the front, as you know: lately it's been the British front;
and they'd taken him in at the chateau for a few days' rest. We met him
there and talked of his friend--your friend, Molly--Doctor Paul."
"What did he say about your eyes?" Dierdre almost gasped. (I should not
have ventured to put the question suddenly, and before people. I should
have been too afraid of the answer. But her nickname is "_Dare!_") "He
must have said something, or Mr. Beckett wouldn't have spoken so. He
_did_ look at your eyes--didn't he? He would, for Herter's sake."
"Yes, he did look at them," Brian admitted. "He didn't say much."
"But what--_what_?"
"He said: 'Wait, and--see.'"
"And see!" Dierdre echoed.
The same thought was in all our minds. As I gazed mutely at Brian, he
gave me the most beautiful smile of his life. He must have felt that I
was looking at him, or he would not so have smiled. Let Jim hate
and--punish me when he comes back, and drive me out of Paradise!
Wherever I may go, there will be the reflection of that smile and the
thought behind it.
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