"No," said Jack; "if he were he would say so." He was careful not to speak bitterly, and she noticed nothing.
"I believe," she said, "that he is about to make another ascension. He often stays a long time in his room, alone, before he is ready. Will it not be delightful? I shall perhaps be permitted to go up with him. Don't you wish you might go with us?"
"Yes," said Jack, with a little more earnestness than he intended.
"Oh! you do? If you are very good, perhaps--perhaps--but I dare not promise. If it were my balloon I would take you."
"Would you--really?"
"Of course--you know it. But it isn't my balloon, you know." After a moment she went on: "I have been thinking all day how noble and good it is of my father to consecrate his life to a purpose that shall be of use to France. He has not said so, but I know that, if the next ascension proves that his discovery is beyond the chance of failure, he will notify the government and place his invention at their disposal. Monsieur Marche, when I think of his unselfish nobleness, the tears come--I cannot help it."
"You, too, are noble," said Jack, resentfully.
"I? Oh, if you knew! I--I am actually wicked! Would you believe it, I sometimes think and think and wish that my father could spend more time with me--with me!--a most silly and thoughtless girl who would sacrifice the welfare of France to her own caprice. Think of it! I pray--very often--that I may learn to be unselfish; but I must be very bad, for I often cry myself to sleep. Is it not wicked?"
"Very," said Jack, but his smile faded and there was a catch in his voice.
"You see," she said, with a gesture of despair, "even you feel it, too!"
"Do you really wish to know what I do think--of you?" he asked, in a low voice.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say "Yes." She checked herself, lips apart, and her eyes became troubled.
There was something about Jack Marche that she had not been able to understand. It occupied her--it took up a good share of her attention, but she did not know where to begin to philosophize, nor yet where to end. He was different from other men--that she understood. But where was that difference?--in his clear, brown eyes, sunny as brown streams in October?--in his serious young face?--in his mouth, clean cut and slightly smiling under his short, crisp mustache, burned blond by the sun? Where was the difference?--in his voice?--in his gestures?--in the turn of his head?