Serena, sitting with her back to the light, was still silent. Cynthia suddenly jumped to her feet and exclaimed. “Come on, let’s go for a walk up to the walls. It’s a wonderful night to see them, and it’s perfectly safe, there will be lots of people along the road.”
Miss Comstock glanced swiftly down the street, then reached out to pat her hand. “You Yankee girls are so energetic,” she drawled. “I’m sure Serena would much prefer to sit right here and listen to the beautiful music.”
But it seemed Serena wouldn’t. She, too, was on her feet. “We’ll just go a little way, Aunt Anna,” she said, “and we won’t be gone long. Come on, Yankee gal,” and she linked her arm through Cynthia’s.
She laughed and talked animatedly for the next block or two but when they came out of the new town and faced the walls of the ancient fortress, all green and dark gold under the moon, with crickets shrilling from the banks of the little stream and the lights of the houses behind them, she was silent again.
“Let’s not go any farther, here’s a splendid place to sit,” suggested Cynthia, who thought the other might be rather tired, and had found a seat on the handrail of the little stone bridge. One could hear far off music and voices sounding faintly, and contrary to expectations the road was almost deserted. Perhaps the old town had little romance or mystery for those who had always lived within sight of its walls. But she must make conversation; this wasn’t being a good guest.
“Where do you go after Carcassonne?” she asked, politely, then saw, with astonishment that Serena was crying!
“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Cynthia distressed. “Look here, you aren’t happy. Can’t you tell me about it?”
“Oh I hate France, I hate Europe, I hate this town worst of all!” and Serena suddenly flopped down beside Cynthia and dropped her head on a much surprised Yankee shoulder. “I want to go ho ... ome! I want ... to ... go ... ho ... ome!”
“Is it just homesickness?” asked Cynthia gently. She certainly knew a lot about that feeling since she came abroad, but Serena shook her head, then started to wipe her eyes. “No ...” forlornly. “It’s ... it’s Jack.”
“Jack? Oh ... ah ... yes,” murmured Cynthia vaguely. “Come, sit up and tell me all about it,” and she patted the other’s back, reassuringly. She had heard that it was sometimes easier to tell your troubles to a stranger. Serena may have heard that too, for she said: