"No, I haven't told her yet," Brian answered for me.
My nerves jumped. I scarcely knew what I expected to hear. "Not Doctor Paul Herter?" I exclaimed—and was surprised to hear on my own lips the name so constantly in my mind.
"Well, that's queer she should speak of him, isn't it, Brian? How did you come to think of Herter?" Father Beckett wanted to know.
"Was it he?" I insisted.
"No. But—you'd better tell her, Brian. I guess you'll have to."
"There isn't much to tell, really," Brian said. "It was only that oculist chap Herter told you about—Dr. Henri Chrevreuil. He's been working at the front, as you know: lately it's been the British front; and they'd taken him in at the château for a few days' rest. We met him there and talked of his friend—your friend, Molly—Doctor Paul."
"What did he say about your eyes?" Dierdre almost gasped. (I should not have ventured to put the question suddenly, and before people. I should have been too afraid of the answer. But her nickname is "Dare!") "He must have said something, or Mr. Beckett wouldn't have spoken so. He did look at your eyes—didn't he? He would, for Herter's sake."
"Yes, he did look at them," Brian admitted. "He didn't say much."
"But what—what?"
"He said: 'Wait, and—see.'"