“Before war was declared?”
“Yes, in June of that year.”
She looked up at him very seriously; but they both smiled as she said:
“It was a momentous month for you then—the month of June, 1914?”
“Very. A charming young girl broke my heart in 1914; and so I came home, a wreck—to recuperate.”
At that she laughed outright, glancing at his youthful, sunburnt face and lean, vigorous figure.
“When did you come over?” he asked curiously.
“I have been here longer than you have. In fact, I left France the day I last saw you.”
“The same day?”
“I started that very same day—shortly after sunrise. I crossed the Belgian frontier that night, and I sailed for New York the morning after. I landed here a week later, and I’ve been here ever since. That, monsieur, is my history.”