CHAPTER XIII
At breakfast next morning Doggie searched the courtyard in vain for the slim figure of the girl. Yesterday she had stood just outside the kitchen door. To-day her office was usurped by a hefty cook with the sleeves of his grey shirt rolled up and his collar open and vast and tight-hitched braces unromantically strapped all over him. Doggie felt a pang of disappointment and abused the tea. Mo Shendish stared, and asked what was wrong with it.
“Rotten,” said Doggie.
“You can’t expect yer slap-up City A.B.C. shops in France,” said Mo.
Doggie, who was beginning to acquire a sense of rueful humour, smiled and was appeased.
It was only in the afternoon that he saw the girl again. She was standing in the doorway of the house, with her hand on her bosom, as though she had just come out to breathe fresh air, when Doggie and his two friends emerged from the yard. As their eyes met, she greeted him with her sad little smile. Emboldened, he stepped forward.
“Bon jour, mademoiselle.”
“Bon jour, monsieur.”
“I hope madame your aunt is better to-day.”
She seemed to derive some dry amusement from his solicitude.