The tone in which it was said, coupled with the memory of that meeting on the upper deck, thrilled me. I sought to make her talk, to establish a natural acquaintance, through no forward curiosity but out of a genuine sympathy. Yet I was so keenly aware of the bar which her traditions interposed that I waited a long moment before I had courage to say:
“Mademoiselle, I hope you will forgive my presumption of last night.”
“Presumption?”
“Yes, it was that. I hope you did not misunderstand my action.”
She turned.
“I did not misunderstand that, no,” she said reluctantly, for I was forcing her into a conversation against her will, “and yet, why should you have done it?”
“Mademoiselle,” I said, surprised at the quickening of my pulses, “I have done what little I could to help, because I love your people. I have lived among sorrow and terror. Am I not allowed to understand, and try to help, just—because it is one of my own kind?”
She did not reply at once. I felt that her eyes were on me.
“You Americans have kind hearts, Monsieur, and I thank you again.”
To this day I can remember the thrill of pleasure that came to me with the first softening of her voice, that first note which told me that in her eyes I was no longer just one of the passing crowd.