Lucy was silent. Once more she felt, as she had often done in the old days with Michelle, that the French had suffered and endured beyond the power to rally and forget their wrongs as young America could do.
In a moment Alan said lightly, “The only way, Eaton, for me to go home in peace, leaving the mystery unsolved, is for you all to promise to come over before the year is up and tell me the whole tale. We’ll sit around a roaring English fire——”
“Or on an English lawn,” put in Lucy, thinking of Janet Leslie and Highland House. “The winter won’t last forever, Alan.”
“Whichever you like,” Alan nodded. “And we’ll forget for an hour that German forests, occupied cities, surly woodcutters and proud Herrs exist on earth. Is it a promise?”
“Promises are queer things,” said Lucy thoughtfully. “I’ve promised to do lots of things that never happened.”
“If wishing is a promise, you have our word,” said Michelle, with the pretty, unaffected warmth that sometimes lighted her gravity.
“But, Alan, if we should go there I’m afraid you’ll still be disappointed,” Lucy insisted. “We shan’t have a thing to tell you, unless Larry makes it up.”
“I can always do that,” agreed Larry. “But perhaps I shan’t have to. What’s got into you lately, Lucy? You used to be as keen as Bob in scenting trouble and looking for dark days ahead at sight of a Boche whisker. Now there’s no stirring you. You’re stodgy. Good English word, Leslie?”
“Scotch, old bean,” said Alan. “Perhaps Lucy’s a bit fed—up with it all and wants to turn her back on it. That’s my feeling.”
“Is it, Alan? That’s just how I feel!” cried Lucy in eager agreement. “I’m sick of it. I don’t long for any more adventures. I want to go home.”