He moved it somewhat to her left. It threw shadows over her features, accentuating their appealing sadness. He watched her, and thought of McPhail’s words about the ghosts. He noted too, as the needle went in and out of the fabric, that her hands, though roughened by coarse work, were finely made, with long fingers and delicate wrists. He broke a silence that grew embarrassing.
“You seem to have suffered greatly, Mademoiselle Jeanne,” he said softly.
Her lips quivered. “Mais oui, monsieur.”
“Monsieur Trevor,” he said.
She put her hands and needlework in her lap and looked at him full.
“And you too have suffered?”
“I? Oh no.”
“But, yes. I have seen too much of it not to know. I see in the eyes. Your two comrades to-day—they are good fellows—but they have not suffered. You are different.”
“Not a bit,” he declared. “We’re just little indistinguishable bits of the conglomerate Tommy.”
“And I, monsieur, have the honour to say that you are different.”