The car was surrounded by eager and courteous young aviators and soldiers, and Kent and Judy well knew it was not all for the gateaux that the Marquise was so beloved. Philippe was summoned and clasped in his mother’s arms. Her heart cried out that every time might be the last.
The Marquise was changed but her son even more so. His dilettantish manner was gone for good, as was also his foppish beard. His face, clean shaven except for a small moustache, was brown and lean; his mouth had taken on purpose; his eyes were no longer merely beautiful but now had depth of expression and a look of pity, as though he had seen much sorrow.
He was greatly pleased to see his cousin Kent and also Miss Kean, who, of course, he thought had gone back to America long ago. He remembered Judy always as the young lady he came so near loving. Indeed, he would have addressed her when Molly Brown had refused him, had he not been made to understand by his fair cousin how important it was to love with one’s whole soul if married happiness was to be expected. He had, after that, gone very slowly in possible courtships. Molly’s friend, Frances Andrews, had almost been his choice, but there was something of fineness lacking in her that deterred him in time, and he was in a measure relieved when that dashing young woman proceeded to marry an impoverished Italian prince. His mother was relieved beyond measure at what she could not but look on as her Philippe’s escape. In fact, she had never seen but one girl she thought would be just right for her beloved son and that was Molly Brown.
Philippe was told of Kent’s being shipwrecked and of Judy’s having taken up her abode with the Tricots. This last bit of information amused him greatly. Judy told with much sprightliness of her serving in the shop and of her learning to make tarts. Philippe began to look upon his cousin Kent as a very lucky dog. He sighed when he promised to come to the wedding breakfast, that is, if he could get leave. Why did all of the charming American girls pass him by?
“J’ai la France et ma mère,” he muttered, as his arm crept around the waist of that beloved mother.
“What are they all looking at so intently?” asked Judy.
“Why, that is a daring young American aviator who has gone to seek some information concerning the trenches of our friends the enemy. He is a strange, quiet little fellow. No one ever gets a word out of him but he has learned to manage his machine quicker than any of the nouveaux, and now is intrusted to carry out all kinds of dangerous orders. He looks like a boy sometimes and sometimes when he is tired, like a strange little old man. He is not very friendly but is quick at repartee and so the fellows let him alone. Speaks French like a Parisian. I have seen him before somewhere, but can’t place him. I asked him once and he was quite stiff and said I had the advantage of him. Of course I didn’t like to force myself on him after that, but I’d really like to be friendly if he would let me. See, here he comes! Look!”
They watched in silence the aeroplane sinking in a lovely spiral glide. As it sank to rest on the greensward, many hands were outstretched to assist the grotesque little figure to alight. Judy recognized in an instant the person she had thought all the time Philippe was describing. It was, of course, Jo Bill Perkins. She was swathed in a dark leather coat and breeches, with a strange shaped cap coming down over her ears. The great goggles she wore could not deceive Judy.
“What is his name?” she asked Philippe.
“Williams is all I know, J. Williams.”