“That is all I can tell you. Whatever he may be, he is more than a brave man—he is a stoic. I arrived an hour ago, and went to the club for my letters, but I did not dare to go in, because it is evident that I am from the front. Look at my clothes. That is why I come here and present myself before you as I am. I must beg your hospitality for a few hours and the run of your writing-table.”
The baroness nodded her head repeatedly as she looked at him. It was not only from his gold-laced uniform that the brightness had gone, but from himself. His manner was abrupt. He was almost stern. This, again, was war.
“You know that now, as always, our house is yours,” she said quietly; for it is not all light hearts that have nothing in them.
Then, being a practical Frenchwoman—and there is no more practical being in the world—she rang for luncheon.
“One sees,” she said, “that you are hungry. One must eat though empires fall.”
“Ah!” said Lory, turning sharply to look at her. “You talk like that in Paris, do you?”
“In the streets, my cousin, they speak plainer language than that. But Henri will tell you what they are saying on the pavement. I have sent for him to the club to come home to luncheon. He forgives me much, that poor man, but he would never forgive me if I did not tell him that you were in Paris.”
“Thank you,” answered Lory. “I shall be glad to see him. There are things which he ought to know, which I cannot tell you.”
“You think I am not discreet,” said the baroness, slowly drawing the pins from her smart hat.
Lory looked up at her with a laugh, which was perhaps what she wanted, for there is no cunning like the cunning of a woman who seeks to charm a man from one humour to another. And when the baroness had first seen Lory, she thought that his heart was broken—by Wörth.