“ ’Ere’s a present from Flanders all right,” he said slowly. “See? That’s where some pore bloke stopped one.”
Madeleine peered at the stuff.
This was the left breast of what had been a man’s shirt. Immediately over the heart there was a rough hole. The cotton thereabouts was all stained to a dull brown, so that the green and grey stripes were indistinguishable. The shoulder was gone, but hanging from the top of the fragment was a strip of quilted linen.
Let me quote from Lady Joan’s letter, dated some five days later and written from St. Jean-de-Luz.
. . . I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible document. Poor girl! The shock was frightful. As luck would have it, the very next town on our route—a place called Ruffec—was her old home. Her brother was there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she’ll ever come back to me, I haven’t the faintest idea. . . .
Again let me quote from a letter her ladyship wrote when two months had gone by.
P.S.—You remember Madeleine? I’ve just had a note from her saying she’s married again! No wonder France is recovering more quickly than England. Most English girls would still be upon slops. However, that’s her affair. But isn’t it just my luck? She was a perfect maid.
Which was a true saying.