"But—why, it's the pluckiest——"
"Love makes heroes of us all, Hector."
He kissed her again, passionately.
"Still I'm in the dark, Frances. Your long silence—where have you been? What have you been doing? I wrote when I got my Commission, you know—to the address you gave Mrs. Tweedy—you remember her? Well, it came back—a 'dead letter'—and after that it was useless, of course, to write again. Why didn't you get that letter?"
"We moved away from that address in a day or so. Then father started us off on a wild pilgrimage—everywhere, in the States, to cover our trail—afterwards to England—France——"
"I see. But why didn't you write—you had my address—a word—a line?"
"Don't reproach me, Hector. Father had me spied on shamelessly. I couldn't get a letter out of the house—or write one. It was terrible. But I stood it, for mother's sake."
"But surely—in fifteen years?"
"Wait. When we got to France, father made a marriage of convenience for me—a wealthy young Frenchman—Deschamps——"
"Then—why are you here?"