“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at her curiously.
“Well, it seems that the Casa Perucca and the Château de Vasselot are not on visiting terms. We only call on each other with a gun.”
“It is odd that you should have asked me that,” said Lory, “for it is not peace, but war.”
And as he looked at her, her face hardened, her steady eyes wavered for once.
“Ah!” she said, her hands dropping sharply against her dingy black dress in a gesture of despair. “Again!”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered Lory, gently; for he had a quick intuition, and knew at a glance that war must have hurt this woman at one time of her life.
She stood for a moment tapping the ground with her foot, looking reflectively across the valley.
“Assuredly,” she said, “Frenchwomen must be the bravest women in the world, or else there would never be a light heart in the whole country. Come, let us go in and tell Denise. It is Germany, I suppose?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. They have long wanted it, and we are obliging them at last. You look grave. It is not bad news I bring you, but good.”
“Women like soldiers, but they hate war,” said mademoiselle, and walked on slowly in silence.