Lucy crawled over and held out a dusty hand to Madame de la Tour, who gave her in return a firm, lingering clasp of her delicate fingers. Michelle’s mother had her daughter’s radiant smile, and it hid for an instant even the heavy lines of weariness and anxiety in her pale face.
“I am very glad if you will be company to my little girl,” she said, in better English than Michelle’s. At the same time her dark eyes searched Lucy’s face, as though the terrible years of doubt, dread and suspicion had made her slow to accept any friendship, even one so innocent as this little American’s. But Lucy’s frank, honest glance seemed to convince her. She patted her hand and smiled again, as though the ever-lurking dangers were forgotten for the moment in motherly pity for the lonely child before her.
“Michelle,” she said quickly, “you must ask la petite to come and visit us. Very sad it must be for her always in the hospital.”
“Will you come, Mees?” asked Michelle, eagerly.
“Yes, but please call me Lucy,” was the prompt reply, to which Michelle agreed with a nod and a smile, saying:
“You, too, call me Michelle. So it is much pleasanter.”
“Where do you live?” was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue, but at that moment she saw Brêlet making energetic signals to her across the room. With a sudden conscience-stricken remembrance of her supplies next door, she sprang up and bade her new friends a hasty good-bye.
“I hope to see you very soon again,” she found time to say, before she squeezed her way through the increasing crowd.
“All right, Brêlet, just wait a minute until I get my things. Is Miss Willis ready to go?” she asked the poilu, who stood by the door, his full basket slung over his shoulder.
“Yes, I will come with Mademoiselle,” he said, following Lucy outside to the other door, where a scanty supply of the articles she wanted were handed from the desk after a further wait of a quarter of an hour.