It
was then that he saw it, small and crumpled on the floor. He picked it
up--a glove of the softest leather. He carried it back to Jacqueline.
"What's this?"
"Wh-wh-what?"
"This glove I found on the floor?"
The sobs decreased at once--broke out more violently--and then she
sprang up from the bunk.
"Pierre, I've acted a regular chump. Are you out with me?"
"Not a bit, old-timer. But about this glove?"
"Oh, that's one of mine."
She took it and slipped it into the bosom of her shirt--the calm blue
eye of Pierre noted.
He said: "We'll eat and forget the rest of this, if you want, Jack."
"And you ain't mad at me, Pierre?"
"Not a bit."
There was just a trace of coldness in his tone, and she knew perfectly
why it was there, but she chose to ascribe it to another cause.
She explained: "You see, a woman is just about nine tenths fool,
Pierre, and has to bust out like that once in a while."
"Oh!" said Pierre, and his eyes wandered past her as though he found
food for thought on the wall.
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