She looked at him steadily. "You'll be sorry if you read it." But she
gave it to him. He lighted a candle, put it on a little table, sat down,
and read. The shock went deep; so deep that it made no violent sign on
the surface. He spread the letter out before him. The candle showed his
face gone grey and knotted with misery. He could bear all the rest:
fight, do all that was right to the coming mother of his child; but this
made him sick and dizzy. He felt as he did when he waked up in Labrador,
with his wife's dead lips pressed to his neck. It was strange too that
Andree was as quiet as he: no storm-misery had gone deep with her also.

"Do you care to tell me about it?" he asked.

She sat back in her chair, her hands over her eyes. Presently, still
sitting so, she spoke.

Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and
had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously
at first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone
for a few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable,
heart-rending, cruel time,--the life-sorrow of a defenceless girl,--
Gaston heard with a hard sort of coldness. The promised marriage was
a matter for the man's mirth a week later. They came across three young
artists from Paris--Bagshot, Fancourt, and another--who camped one night
beside them. It was then she fully realised the deep shame of her
position. The next night she ran away and joined a travelling menagerie.
The rest he knew. When she had ended there was silence for a time,
broken only by one quick gasping sob from Gaston. The girl sat still
as death, her eyes on him intently.

"Poor Andree! Poor girl!" he said at last. She sighed pitifully.