When the toast was done and the tea made, some whim led her to change
her tunic for a white jersey newly back from the wash, to put on the
old dancing shoes of Metz--and not until her hair was carefully brushed
to match this gaiety did she draw up the armchair with the broken leg,
and prop it steadily beside the tea-table.
But--
Who was that knocking on the door in the street?
One of the Section coming on a message? The _brigadier_ to tell her that
she had some last duty still?
"Shall I go to the window?" (creeping nearer to it). Then, with a glance
back at the tea-table, "No, let them knock!"
But how they knocked! Persistent, gentle--could one sit peacefully at
tea so called and so besought! She went up to the blue curtains, and
standing half-concealed, saw the _concierge_ brooding in the sunlight of
her window-sill.
"Is _nobody_ there?" said a light voice in the hidden street below, and
at that she peered cautiously over the edge of the stonework, and saw a
pale young man in grey before the door.
She watched him. She watched him gravely, for he had come too late. But
tenderly, for she had been in love with him. The _concierge_ raised her
two black brows in her expressive face and looked upwards. Her look
said: "Why don't you let him in?"
Yet Fanny stood inactive, her hands resting on the sun-warmed stone.
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