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