“Monsieur André, why do you suppose that Monsieur de Lautrec doesn’t work?”
“Philippe?” His voice was strange.
“Yes, Philippe—you didn’t suppose that I meant the Vicomte, did you? This place keeps him busy from morning to night. Philippe, of course.” Her voice was impatient, but there was a desperate eagerness behind it that checked the quick words on De Chartreuil’s tongue.
“Mademoiselle, for four years he worked day and night; he gave the blood of his heart, the blood of his soul in work—would you grudge him a little rest?”
“But, good heavens, he’s had years to rest,” cried Fair despairingly. “He’s not going to rest until he dies, is he? You’re not resting—Monsieur Raoul’s not resting—no one in the world has a right to rest when there’s so much to do—no one!”
“For long, long after the war he did not leave the hospital, Mademoiselle.”
“Well, wasn’t he resting there?” demanded his inquisitor fiercely.
“No,” replied the boy gravely. “No, he was not resting there, I think.”
“What—what was the matter with him in the hospital?” asked Fair, making her lips into a very straight line so that they wouldn’t quiver.
“It was—what you call shell-shock.”