"What is it?" he asked, his arms under his head. "Come, let us have it! It is, of course, about the American lady."
"It is," Jean said bluntly. "You cannot mix women and war."
"And you think I am doing that?"
"I am not an idiot," Jean growled. "You do not know what you are doing. I do. She is young and lonely. You are young and not unattractive to women. Already she turns pale when I so much as ask if she has heard from you."
"You asked her that?"
"You were gone much longer than—"
"And you thought I might send her word, and not you!" Henri's voice was offended. He lay back while the boy brought in the morning coffee and rolls.
"Let me tell you something," he said when the boy had gone. "She is betrothed to an American. She wears a betrothal ring. I am to her—the French language!"
But, though Henri laughed, Jean remained grave and brooding. For Henri had not said what Sara Lee already was to him.
It was later in the morning that Henri broached the subject again. They were in the courtyard of an old house, working over the engine of the car.