"Oh, non! non!" cried Henriette. Then, in awe: "Major Marchand."
"Oh! Is that Major Marchand?"
"But yes, Mademoiselle Ruth. Ah-h! Such a man—such a figure! He is Madame the Countess' younger son."
"So I understand," Ruth said. "He is safely engaged in Paris, is he not?" and her tone implied much.
"Ye-es. So it is said. He—he must be a ve-ry important man, Mademoiselle, or his duty would not keep him there."
"Unless the Boches succeed in raiding Paris from the air he is not likely to get hurt at all—this Major Marchand?"
"Oh!" pouted Henriette. "You are so critical. But he is—what you say?—so-o beautiful!"
"Not in my eyes," said Ruth grimly. "I don't like dolly soldiers."
"Oh, Mademoiselle Ruth!" murmured the French girl. "Do not let Madame the Countess suspect your feelings toward her younger son. He is all she has now, you know."
"Indeed? Has the older son fallen in battle?"