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you think a _jeune fille francaise bien elevee_ could have talked to you alone as I have done the past two days? Absurd. The explanation is the war." Doggie laughed. "_Vive la guerre!_" said he. "_Mais non!_ Be serious. We must come to an understanding." In her preoccupation she forgot the rules laid down for the guidance of _jeunes filles bien elevees_, and unthinkingly perched herself full on the kitchen table on the corner of which Doggie sat in a one-legged way. Doggie gasped again. All her assumed age fell from her like a garment. Youth proclaimed itself in her attitude and the supple lines of her figure. She was but a girl after all, a girl with a steadfast soul that had been tried in unutterable fires; but a girl appealing, desirable. He felt mighty protective. "An understanding? All right," said he. "I don't want you to go away and think ill of me--that I am one of those women--_les affranchies_ I think they call them--who think themselves above social laws. I am not. I am _bourgeoise_ to my finger-tips, and I reverence all the old maxims and prejudices in which I was born. But conditions are different. It is just like the priests who have been called into the ranks. To look at them from the outside, you would never dream they were priests--but their hearts and their souls are untouched." She was so earnest, in her pathetic youthfulness, to put herself right with him, so unlike the English girls of his acquaintance, who would have taken this chance companionship as a matter of course, that his face lost the smile and became grave, and he met her sad eyes. "That was very bravely said, Jeanne. To me you will be always the most wonderful woman I have ever known." "What caused you to speak to me the first day?" she asked, after a pause. "I explained to you--to apologize for staring rudely into your house." "It was not because you said to yourself, 'Here is a pretty girl looking at me. I'll go and talk to her'?" Doggie threw his leg over the corner of the table and stood on indignant feet. "Jeanne! How could you----?" he cried. She leaned back, her open palms on the table. The rare light came into her eyes. "That's what I wanted to know. Now we understand each other, Monsieur Trevor." "I wish you wouldn't call me Monsieur Trevor," said he. "What else can I call you? I know no other name." Now he had in his pocket a letter from Peggy, received that morning, beginning "My dearest
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