“Why do they call you the American?”
Marguerite Lambert stared at him with her eyes opened wide.
“You, too?”
“Yes. We are of the same race.”
She looked at his uniform.
“My mother was French, my father English. He took my mother’s nationality,” he said.
Marguerite suddenly stretched both her hands across the table to him in a swift abandonment.
“I am glad,” she said. “I come from Devonshire.”
“I from Sussex.”
“I from the county of broad moors and little valleys. You from—”; and some look upon his face checked her suddenly. “I have said something that hurts?” she asked remorsefully.