Doggie said, with a little touch of national jealousy and a reversion to Durdlebury punctilio: “I hope, mademoiselle, you have always found the English soldier conduct himself like a gentleman.”
“Mais oui, mais oui!” she cried, “they are all charming. Ils sont doux comme des moutons. But this is a question of delicacy—somewhat exaggerated.”
“It’s good of you, mademoiselle, to forgive me,” said Doggie.
By all the rules of polite intercourse, either Doggie should have made his bow and exit, or the maiden, exercising her prerogative, should have given him the opportunity of a graceful withdrawal. But they remained where they were, the girl framed by the doorway, the lithe little figure in khaki and lichen-coloured helmet looking up at her from the foot of the two front steps.
At last he said in some embarrassment: “That’s a very beautiful cask of yours.”
She wavered for a few seconds. Then she said:
“You can enter, monsieur, and examine it, if you like.”
Mademoiselle was very amiable, said Doggie. Mademoiselle moved aside and Doggie entered, taking off his helmet and holding it under his arm like an opera-hat. There was nothing much to see in the little vestibule-parlour: a stiff tasselled chair or two, a great old linen-press taking up most of one side of a wall, a cheap table covered with a chenille tablecloth, and the resplendent old cask, about which he lingered. He mentioned Brittany. Her tragic face lighted up again. Monsieur was right. Her aunt, Madame Morin, was Breton, and had brought the cask with her as part of her dowry, together with the press and other furniture. Doggie alluded to the vastly lettered inscription, “Veuve Morin et Fils.” Madame Morin was, in a sense, his hostess. And the sons?
“One is in Madagascar, and the other—alas, monsieur!”
And Doggie knew what that “alas!” meant.