“You loved him?”
“Yes—not as I love you.”
Presently she raised her eyes to his.
“Shall I tell you all? I am like so many—so many others. When you know their story, you know mine.”
He leaned down and kissed her.
“Don’t tell me,” he said.
But she went on.
“I was only seventeen—I am nineteen now. He was an officer at—at Chartres, where we lived. He took me to Paris.”
“And left you.”
“He died of the fever in Tonquin.”