“Eh, Bonne Dame; que c’est notre Mamzelle!”
She turned, and her face went blank: then, recovering herself, she said something rapidly in the Breton dialect which I could not understand. The effect was instantaneous. The boy drew up straight, snatched off his cap, and with marks of great respect backed away.
“Take my arm,” I said, going to her instantly.
She made no resistance and once as we started she swayed against my side. We crossed the deck and I found her a seat where she was sheltered from sight. There was no mistaking the effect on her. The lips were twitching, and the lines under her staring eyes were quivering with a haunting pain.
“Don’t try to speak. Don’t worry. No one saw you—not even I. Do you understand?”
“Monsieur—” She tried to speak and then put her hand to her throat.
“Don’t try to explain. Believe me, it isn’t necessary.”
She looked up at me, weak and shaken, and for the first time that I remembered her eyes held mine in a long, searching, mute appeal.
“But you will think—”
“Let me be your friend that far, Mademoiselle,” I said impulsively. “Trust me. I have forgotten.”