"But, monsieur," said Peggy, feeling desperately lonely in Paris, and pathetically eager to talk to a human being, even in her rusty Vevey school French, "haven't you wondered why I've been so anxious to find this young lady?"

"If we began to wonder," he replied with a laugh, "at the things which happen during the war, we should be so bewildered that we shouldn't be able to carry on our work. Madame," said he, handing her his card, "if you should have further need of me in the matter, I am always at your service."

He bowed profoundly and left her.

Peggy stayed at the Ritz because, long ago, when her parents had fetched her from Vevey and had given her the one wonderful fortnight in Paris she had ever known, they had chosen this dignified and not inexpensive hostelry. To her girlish mind it had breathed the last word of splendour, movement, gaiety--all that was connoted by the magical name of the City of Light. But now the glamour had departed.

She wondered whether it had ever been. Oliver had laughed at her experiences. Sandwiched between dear old Uncle Edward and Aunt Sophia, what in the sacred name of France could she have seen of Paris? Wait till they could turn round. He would take her to Paris. She would have the unimagined time of her life. They dreamed dreams of the Rue de la Paix--he had five hundred pounds laid by, which he had ear-marked for an orgy of shopping in that Temptation Avenue of a thoroughfare; of Montmartre, the citadel of delectable wickedness and laughter; of funny little restaurants in dark streets where you are delighted to pay twenty francs for a mussel, so exquisitely is it cooked; of dainty and crazy theatres; of long drives, folded in each other's arms, when moonlight touches dawn, through the wonders of the enchanted city.

Her brief dreams had eclipsed her girlish memories. Now the dreams had become blurred. She strove to bring them back till her soul ached, till she broke down into miserable weeping. She was alone in a strange, unedifying town; in a strange, vast, commonplace hotel. The cold, moonlit Place de la Vendome, with its memorable column, just opposite her bedroom window, meant nothing to her. She had the desolating sense that nothing in the world would ever matter to her again--nothing as far as she, Peggy Manningtree, was concerned. Her life was over. Altruism alone gave sanction to continued existence.

Hence her present adventure. Paris might have been Burslem for all the interest it afforded.

Jeanne worked from morning to night in the succursale of the Croix Rouge in the Rue Vaugirard. She had tried, after the establishment of her affairs, to enter, in no matter what capacity, a British base hospital. It would be a consolation for her surrender of Doggie to work for his wounded comrades. Besides, twice in her life she owed everything to the English, and the repayment of the debt was a matter of conscience. But she found that the gates of English hospitals were thronged with English girls; and she could not even speak the language. So, guided by the Paris friend with whom she lodged, she made her way to the Rue Vaugirard, where, in the packing-room, she had found hard unemotional employment. 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 cla.s.ses, 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 c.r.a.pe 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 refined, pale face and graceful gestures, in the funny instinctive British way tried to place her socially. Was she a lady? It made such a difference. This was the girl for whom Doggie had performed his deed of knight-errantry; the girl whom she proposed to take back to Doggie.

For the moment, discounting the uniform which might have hidden a midinette or a d.u.c.h.ess, she had nothing but the face and the gestures and the beautifully modulated voice to go upon, and between the accent of the midinette and the d.u.c.h.ess--both being equally charming to her English ear--Peggy could not discriminate. She had, however, beautiful, capable hands, and took care of her finger-nails.

Jeanne broke the tiny spell of embarra.s.sed silence.

"I am at your disposal, madame."

Peggy plunged at once into facts.

"It may seem strange, my coming to you; but the fact is that my cousin, Monsieur Trevor, is severely wounded...."

"_Mon Dieu!_" said Jeanne.

"And his friend, Mr. McPhail, who is also wounded, thinks that if you--well----"

Her French failed her--to carry off a very delicate situation one must have command of language--she could only blurt out--"_Il faut comprendre, mademoiselle. Il a fait beaucoup pour vous._"

She met Jeanne's dark eyes. Jeanne said:

"_Oui, madame, vous avez raison. Il a beaucoup fait pour moi._"

Peggy flushed at the unconscious correction--"_beaucoup fait_" for "_fait beaucoup_."

"He has done not only much, but everything for me, madame," Jeanne continued. "And you who have come from England expressly to tell me that he is wounded, what do you wish me to do?"

"Accompany me back to London. I had a telegram this morning to say that he had arrived at a hospital there."

"Then you have not seen him?"

"Not yet."

"Then how, madame, do you know that he desires my presence?"

Peggy glanced at the girl's hands clasped on her lap, and saw that the knuckles were white.

"I am sure of it."

"He would have written, madame. I only received one letter from him, and that was while I still lived at Frelus."

"He wrote many letters and telegraphed to Frelus, and received no answers."

"Madame," cried Jeanne, "I implore you to believe what I say: but not one of those letters have ever reached me."

"Not one?"

At first Peggy was incredulous. Phineas McPhail had told her of Doggie's despair at the lack of response from Frelus; and, after all, Frelus had a properly const.i.tuted post office in working order, which might be expected to forward letters. She had therefore come prepared to reproach the girl. But ...

"_Je le jure_, madame," said Jeanne.

And Peggy believed her.

"But I wrote to Monsieur McPhail, giving him my address in Paris."

"He lost the letter before he saw Doggie again"--the name slipped out--"and forgot the address."

"But how did you find me?"