Chérie looked bewildered. George was silent a moment; then he spoke again.
"And what do you think about the English men? Do you dislike them too?"
"I don't really know them," said Chérie; "but they—they look very nice," and she turned her blue eyes full upon him, taking a quick survey of his handsome figure and fair, frank face.
George felt himself blush, and hated himself for it.
"You—you would never think of marrying an Englishman, would you?"
Chérie shook her head, and the long lashes drooped over the sea-blue stars. "I am affianced to be married," she said with her pretty foreign accent, "to a soldier of Belgium."
"Oh, I see," said George rather huskily and hurriedly. "Of course. Quite so."
They walked along in silence for a little while. Then he opened her book, which he still held in his hand. "What were you reading? Poetry?"
He glanced at the fly-leaf, on which were written the words "Florian Audet, à Chérie," and he quickly turned the page. "Poetry" ... he said again, "by Victor Hugo." Then he added, "Why, this sounds as if it were written for you: 'Elle était pâle et pourtant rose....' That is just what you are."
Chérie did not answer. What was this strange flutter at her heart again? It frightened her. Could it be angina pectoris, or some other strange and terrible disease? Not that it hurt her; but it thrilled her from head to foot.