loyment. Yet the work had to be done: and it
was done for France, which, after all, was dearer to her than England;
and among her fellow-workers, women of all classes, she had pleasant
companionship.

When, one day, the old concierge, bemedalled from the war of 1870,
appeared to her in the packing-room, with the announcement that a
_dame anglaise_ desired to speak to her, she was at first bewildered.
She knew no English ladies--had never met one in her life. It took a
second or two for the thought to flash that the visit might concern
Doggie. Then came conviction. In blue overall and cap, she followed
the concierge to the ante-room, her heart beating. At the sight of the
young Englishwoman in black, with a crape hat and little white band
beneath the veil, it nearly stopped altogether.

Peggy advanced with outstretched hand.

"You are Mademoiselle Jeanne Bossiere?"

"Yes, madame."

"I am a cousin of Monsieur Trevor----"

"Ah, madame"--Jeanne pointed to the mourning--"you do not come to tell
me he is dead?"

Peggy smiled. "No. I hope not."

"Ah!" Jeanne sighed in relief, "I thought----"

"This is for my husband," said Peggy quietly.

"_Ah, madame! je demande bien pardon. J'ai du vous faire de la peine.
Je n'y pensais pas_----"

Jeanne was in great distress. Peggy smiled again. "Widows dress
differently in England and France." She looked around and her eyes
fell upon a bench by the wall. "Could we sit down and have a little
talk?"

"_Pardon, madame, c'est que je suis un peu emue_ ..." said Jeanne.

She led the way to the bench. They sat down together, and for a
feminine second or two took stock of each other. Jeanne's first
rebellious instinct said: "I was right." In her furs and her perfect
millinery and perfect shoes and perfect black silk stockings that
appeared below the short skirt, Peggy, blue-eyed, fine-featured, the
fine product of many generations of scholarly English gentlefolk,
seemed to incarnate her vague conjectures of the social atmosphere in
which Doggie had his being. Her peasant blood impelled her to
suspicion, to a half-grudging admiration, to self-protective jealousy.
The Englishwoman's ease of manner, in spite of her helter-skelter
French, oppressed her with an angry sense of inferiority. She was also
conscious of the blue overall and close-fitting cap. Yet the
Englishwoman's smile was kind and she had lost her husband.... And
Peggy, looking at this girl with the dark, tragic eyes and