She smiled again. And the strange thing about her smile was that it was a matter of her lips and rarely of her eyes, which always maintained the haunting sadness of their tragic depths.
“Monsieur Trevor,” she repeated imitatively. “And yours, monsieur?”
“McPhail.”
“Mac-Fêle; c’est assez difficile. And yours?”
Mo guessed. “Shendish,” said he.
She repeated that also, whereat Mo grinned fatuously, showing his little yellow teeth beneath his scrubby red moustache.
“My friends call me Mo,” said he.
She grasped his meaning. “Mo,” she said; and she said it so funnily and softly, and with ever so little a touch of quizzicality, that the sentimental warrior roared with delight.
“You’ve got it right fust time, miss.”
From her two steps’ height of vantage, she looked down on the three upturned British faces—and her eyes went calmly from one to the other.