"Do you care to know?"
"Of course," she said.
So he told her; not all, however—not of that ride and the chase and the shots from the saddle. But he spoke of the Emperor and the distant battle that had seemed like a scene in a painted landscape. He told her, too, of Georges Carrière.
"Why, I know him," she said, brightening with pleasure; "he is charming—isn't he?"
"Why, yes," said Jack; but for all he tried his voice sounded coldly.
"Don't you think so?" asked Lorraine, opening her blue eyes.
Again he tried to speak warmly of the friend he was really fond of, and again he felt that he had failed. Why? He would not ask himself—but he knew. This shamed him, and he began an elaborate eulogy on poor Georges, conscientious, self-effacing, but very, very unsatisfactory.
The maid beside him listened demurely. She also knew things that she had not known a week ago. That possibly is why, like a little bird stretching its new wings, she also tried her own resources, innocently, timidly. And the torment of Jack began.
"Monsieur Marche, do you think that Lieutenant Carrière may come to Morteyn?"
"He said he would; I—er—I hope he will. Don't you?"