He flung down his torn felt hat and threw off the long oil-skin coat. Under it he was dressed in a dark linen suit, such as she had seen some of the wounded Germans wear. He drew her to the window seat; the soft May twilight fell on her pale face and glittering hair.
"Tell me, Chérie, tell me all the news; quickly. I cannot stay long," he added, "it would be dangerous for you and for me. I have escaped from the Infirmary at Liège; they will be hunting all over the place for me—and for the ploughman's clothes," he added with a smile that for a moment made him look like the Florian of old.
"The Infirmary? Have you been wounded?"
"No. I have been blown up. The Germans found me; they think me a Boche, and meschugge—that is Berlinese for crazy. They have kept me with ice-bags on my head for three weeks," he laughed again. "Perhaps I was really off my head at first—but tell me, tell me about you. How are you? How is Louise?"
"She is well."
"Is the little girl here too?"
"Mireille?" There was a pause. "Yes, Mireille is here."
Something in her voice startled him. "What is wrong? Has anything happened?"
She was silent. His steel-blue eyes tried to pierce through the pallor of her face, through the black-fringed, drooping eyelids, to read in her soul. He suddenly felt that this shrinking figure in its white gown and black shawl was aloof from him and draped in mystery. "What is it?" he repeated. "What is wrong? Where has Louise gone to?" and he looked round the familiar room with a sense of misgiving.
"She has gone ... to ... to fetch Mireille...." Chérie stammered. Then she suddenly raised her wild blue eyes to his. "Mireille is not as she used to be."