They were both looking at him and something seemed to be required of him. So with an effort,
"How long—how long have you been in France?" he asked.
"Only three weeks," said Quinlevin, "watching the bulletins daily for news of you. I found out a week ago, but they wouldn't let us in until to-day. And we can stay only five minutes."
Then Moira spoke again, with a different note in her voice.
"Are you glad that I came?" she asked. "It was the least I could do."
"Glad!"
The word seemed sufficient. Jim Horton seemed glad to utter it. If she would only recognize the imposture and relieve him of the terrible moment of confession. But she didn't. She had accepted him as Quinlevin, as all the others had done, for his face value, without a sign of doubt.
And Barry Quinlevin stood beaming upon them both, his bright eyes snapping benevolence.
"If ye get the V.C., Harry boy, she'll sure be worshiping ye."
Jim Horton's gaze, fixed as though fascinated upon the quiet slate-blue eyes, saw them close for a moment in trouble, while a quick little frown puckered the white forehead. And when she spoke again, her voice uttered the truth that was in her heart.