He hesitated. “Oh, hang it all, no! There’s something about France that holds us poor devils—I don’t know what. Barring England, she’s the only human nation in the whole snarling pack. Here’s to her—damn her impudence! If she wants me she can have me—empire, kingdom, or republic. Vive anything—as long as it’s French!”
I was laughing when we entered the court; Jacqueline, her big, furry cat in her arms, came to the door and greeted Speed with:
“You have been away a very long time, and the thorns are all out of my arms and my legs, and I have been desiring to see you. Come into the house and read—shall we?”
Speed turned to me with an explanatory smile. “I’ve been reading the ’Idyls’ aloud to her in English,” he said, rather shyly. “She seems to like them; it’s the 347 noble music that attracts her; she can’t understand ten words.”
“I can understand nearly twenty,” she said, flushing painfully.
Speed, who had no thought of hurting her, colored up, too.
“You don’t comprehend, little one,” he said, quickly. “It was in praise, not in blame, that I spoke.”
“I knew it—I am silly,” she said, with quick tears trembling in her eyes. “You know I adore you, Speed. Forgive me.”
She turned away into the house, saying that she would get the book.
“Look here, Speed,” I said, troubled, “Jacqueline is very much like the traditional maid of romance, which I never believed existed—all unspoiled, frankly human, innocently daring, utterly ignorant of convention. She’s only a child now, but another year or two will bring something else to her.”