"The nice old lady in the kitchen."

Mo flung his arm away. "Oh, go and boil yourself!" said he.

But the making of love to the old woman in the kitchen led to possibilities of which Mo Shendish never dreamed. They never dawned on Doggie until he found himself at it that evening.

It was dusk. The men were lounging and smoking about the courtyard.

Doggie, who had long since exchanged poor Taffy Jones's imperfect penny whistle for a scientific musical instrument ordered from Bond Street, was playing, with his sensitive skill, the airs they loved. He had just finished "Annie Laurie"--"Man," Phineas used to declare, "when Doggie Trevor plays 'Annie Laurie,' he has the power to take your heart by the strings and drag it out through your eyes"--he had just come to the end of this popular and gizzard-piercing tune and received his meed of applause, when Toinette came out of the kitchen, two great zinc crocks in her hands, and crossed to the pump in the corner of the yard. Three or four would-be pumpers, among them Doggie, went to her aid.

"All right, mother, we'll see to it," said one of them.

So they pumped and filled the crocks, and one man got hold of one and Doggie got hold of another, and they carried them to the kitchen steps.

"_Merci, monsieur_," said Toinette to the first; and he went away with a friendly nod. But to Doggie she said, "_Entrez, monsieur_." And monsieur carried the two crocks over the threshold and Toinette shut the door behind him. And there, sitting over some needlework in a corner of the kitchen by a lamp, sat Jeanne.

She looked up rather startled, frowned for the brief part of a second, and regarded him inquiringly.

"I brought in monsieur to show him the photograph of _mon petiot_, the comrade who sent me the snuff," explained Toinette, rummaging in a cupboard.

"May I stay and look at it?" asked Doggie, b.u.t.toning up his tunic.

"_Mais parfaitement, monsieur_," said Jeanne. "It is Toinette's kitchen."

"_Bien sur_," said the old woman, turning with the photograph, that of a solid young infantryman. Doggie made polite remarks. Toinette put on a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles and scanned the picture. Then she handed it to Jeanne.

"Don't you think there is a great deal of resemblance?"

Jeanne directed a comparing glance at Doggie and smiled.

"Like two little soldiers in a pod," she said.

Toinette talked of her _petiot_ who was at St. Mihiel. It was far away, very far. She sighed as though he were fighting remote in the Caucasus.

Presently came the sharp ring of a bell. Jeanne put aside her work and rose.

"It is my aunt who has awakened."

But Toinette was already at the door. "I will go up, Ma'amselle Jeanne. Do not derange yourself."

She bustled away. Once more the pair found themselves alone together.

"If you don't continue your sewing, mademoiselle," said Doggie, "I shall think that I am disturbing you, and must bid you good night."

Jeanne sat down and resumed her work. A sensation, more like laughter than anything else, fluttered round Doggie's heart.

"_Voulez-vous vous a.s.seoir, Monsieur--Trevor?_"

"_Vous etes bien aimable, Mademoiselle Jeanne_," said Doggie, sitting down on a straight-backed chair by the oilcloth-covered kitchen table which was between them.

"May I move the lamp slightly?" he asked, for it hid her from his view.

He moved it somewhat to her left. It threw shadows over her features, accentuating their appealing sadness. He watched her, and thought of McPhail's words about the ghosts. He noted too, as the needle went in and out of the fabric, that her hands, though roughened by coa.r.s.e work, were finely made, with long fingers and delicate wrists. He broke a silence that grew embarra.s.sing.

"You seem to have suffered greatly, Mademoiselle Jeanne," he said softly.

Her lips quivered. "_Mais oui, monsieur._"

"Monsieur Trevor," he said.

She put her hands and needlework in her lap and looked at him full.

"And you too have suffered?"

"I? Oh no."

"But, yes. I have seen too much of it not to know. I see in the eyes.

Your two comrades to-day--they are good fellows--but they have not suffered. You are different."

"Not a bit," he declared. "We're just little indistinguishable bits of the conglomerate Tommy."

"And I, monsieur, have the honour to say that you are different."

This was very flattering. More--it was sweet unction, grateful to many a bruise.

"How?" said he.

"You do not belong to their world. Your Tommies are wonderful in their kindness and chivalry--until I met them I had never seen an Englishman in my life--I had imbecile ideas--I thought they would be without manners--_un peu insultants_. I found I could walk among them, without fear, as if I were a princess. It is true."

"It is because you have the air of a princess," said Doggie; "a sad little disguised princess of a fairy-tale, who is recognized by all the wild boars and rabbits in the wood."

She glanced aside. "There isn't a woman in Frelus who is differently treated. I am only an ignorant girl, half bourgeoise, half peasant, monsieur, but I have my woman's knowledge--and I know there is a difference between you and the others. You are a son of good family.

It is evident. You have a delicacy of mind and of feeling. You were not born to be a soldier."

"Mademoiselle Jeanne," cried Doggie, "do I appear as bad as that? Do you take me for an _embusque manque_?"

Now an _embusque_ is a slacker who lies in the safe ambush of a soft job. And an _embusque manque_ is a slacker who fortuitously has failed to win the fungus wreath of slackerdom.

She flushed deep red.

"_Je ne suis pas malhonnete, monsieur._"

Doggie spread himself elbow-wise over the table. The girl's visible register of moods was fascinating.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle Jeanne. You are quite right. But it's not a question of what I was born to be--but what I was trained to be. I wasn't trained to be a soldier. But I do my best."

She looked at him waveringly.