"We too have suffered," began Patricia, thinking to divert her mind from herself,—"suffered dreadfully. You know, my father went over with the army when the war first broke out here, and when we bade him good-by, we knew there was a big chance of never seeing him again. But when we got word, a few months later, that he had been wounded and taken prisoner by the Germans, we were sure we shouldn't. The suspense was simply frightful. I never want to go through such a thing again as long as I live. Six long months it was, and we had no idea what had happened to him. We almost hoped he was dead, because the things we read of as happening to the prisoners were so unspeakable. And then he escaped and came back to us—we never knew a thing about it till he was brought home one day. I thought Mother would die with the joy of it. She's in a sanatorium now—getting over the shock of it all. So, you see, Virginie dear, I know what you have suffered, and I'm sure your troubles are going to vanish—just as ours did."
But Virginie only shook her head. "It is not possible. You do not know all—you cannot. My father is—perhaps—worse than dead. He—but still, I feel very close to you. We have both suffered. We understand—each other. I—I love you!" And she kissed Patricia impulsively on both cheeks.
Another silence followed, the girls sitting close together on the couch, in wordless, understanding sympathy. Suddenly Virginie sprang to her feet, her dark eyes gleaming. "Hush! Listen!" she cried. "I heard a strange rustling outside the door. Can it be—some one listening?" She hurried to the door and pulled it open, Patricia close at her heels. The corridor was empty.
"It was probably only a maid going by," laughed Patricia. "You're as scary as I am, I do believe. I heard it, too. But let's go and settle down again. I'm sure we're going to be the best kind of friends. Isn't it lucky we're right across the hall from each other?"
But Virginie did not assent to the latter question. Instead, she put one of her own. "Do you speak French at all?" she inquired. "I have studied the English, but I speak it with difficulty. I think only in French, and I can express myself better in that tongue. It is my native language."
"Oh, I'd love to talk French with you!" agreed Patricia, joyfully. "Father made me study it and speak it with him ever since I was a little girl. But I haven't had much practice in it lately, and I don't believe my accent is very good. We'll use it all the time, and you can tell me when I make mistakes."
So they began to chatter in French, to Virginie's evident relief, and her manner presently lost much of its restraint. At noon Patricia sent down for a delicious luncheon to be served for them both in the room, but was thoroughly disgusted to find that her pet aversion, Peter Stoger, had been sent up with it. And though he seemed anxious to arrange the table for them, she summarily dismissed him, shutting and locking the door after him with a shudder.
"I thoroughly detest that man," she confided to Virginie. And, rather to her surprise, Virginie heartily agreed with her.
"I know. I feel a great dislike toward him. I think he is an enemy. I think he is—watching."
"Precisely what I've thought!" cried Patricia. "Isn't it queer that we've both felt the same about him! Ugh! I wish now that we'd gone down to the dining-room. We could have sat at your table. You have another waiter. Well, never mind. Let's enjoy ourselves now, anyway."