She turned shy and a little grave at that, but seeing Warner laughing, laughed too.
"If I were a great lady," she said, "you might be right. Only from the saddle could any man dare hope for a smile from me now."
Linette, with the bright color of excitement still brilliant in her cheeks, brought out the breakfast tray.
"On the quarry road, across the river," she said, "our fantassins are marching north—thousands of them, messieurs!—and the dust is like a high white wall against the hills!"
So they hastened with their coffee and rolls; Warner fetched the garden ladder and set it against the east wall, and all three mounted and seated themselves on the coping.
What Linette had reported was true: across the Récollette a wall of white dust ran north and south as far as they could see. Under it an undulating column tramped, glimmering, sparkling, flowing northward—an endless streak of dusty crimson where the red trousers of the line were startlingly visible through the haze.
Watching the stirring spectacle from a seat on the wall beside Philippa, Warner turned to her presently:
"Do you feel all right this morning?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Your lip is still a trifle swollen."