"About—you." Tessie made it a caress.
"Me? Nothin' to tell about me. I just been drillin' and studyin' and marchin' and readin' some—Oh, say, what d'you think?"
"What?"
"They been learnin' us—teachin' us, I mean—French. It's the darnedest language! Bread is pain. Can you beat that? If you want to ask for a piece of bread, you say like this: Donnay ma un morso doo pang. See?"
"My!" breathed Tessie, all admiration.
And within her something was screaming: "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! He knows French. And those girls that can row and everything. And me, I don't know anything. Oh, God, what'll I do?"
It was as though she could see him slipping away from her, out of her grasp, out of her sight. She had no fear of what might come to him in France. Bullets and bayonets would never hurt Chuck. He'd make it, just as he always made the 7.50 when it seemed as if he was going to miss it sure. He'd make it there and back, all right. But he—he'd be a different Chuck, while she stayed the same Tessie. Books, travel, French, girls, swell folks—
And all the while she was smiling and dimpling and trailing her hand in the water. "Bet you can't guess what I got in that lunch box."
"Chocolate cake."
"Well, of course I've got chocolate cake. I baked it myself this morning."