He thinks I don't want to see him. He
thinks--he must think--I'm no longer his--his--his friend. If I
could only get to him, I should be safe."
"Why don't you write to him?" Caroline suggested.
The girl laughed bitterly.
"If _you_ had prisoners in _your_ fortress, and they wrote letters
to their friends to come and get them out, would _you_ mail the
letters?" she demanded.
"I s'pose not," said Caroline gravely. Joan of Arc gulped.
"My letters never went," she said. "Now listen: I must go up to my
room and get some money--I can't do anything without money. Will you
wait here till I come back and not let anyone see you if you can
help it? And if they do, will you say that you slipped in at the
gate with a party that came in an automobile? One was here lately.
Ask if you mayn't stay and see the flowers. And then I will meet
you."
She looked hard in Caroline's eyes. "You're only playing," she said,
suddenly. "You aren't--you aren't--What is your real name, dear?"
Caroline scowled.
"You better hurry up," she said, "or that gardener'll catch us.
You're just like Marie Antoinette," she added irritably. "You think
nobody can be anything but only yourself!"
Without a word the girl turned and left her, half running.
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