This was very flattering. More—it was sweet unction, grateful to many a bruise.
“How?” said he.
“You do not belong to their world. Your Tommies are wonderful in their kindness and chivalry—until I met them I had never seen an Englishman in my life—I had imbecile ideas—I thought they would be without manners—un peu insultants. I found I could walk among them, without fear, as if I were a princess. It is true.”
“It is because you have the air of a princess,” said Doggie; “a sad little disguised princess of a fairy-tale, who is recognized by all the wild boars and rabbits in the wood.”
She glanced aside. “There isn’t a woman in Frélus who is differently treated. I am only an ignorant girl, half bourgeoise, half peasant, monsieur, but I have my woman’s knowledge—and I know there is a difference between you and the others. You are a son of good family. It is evident. You have a delicacy of mind and of feeling. You were not born to be a soldier.”
“Mademoiselle Jeanne,” cried Doggie, “do I appear as bad as that? Do you take me for an embusqué manqué?”
Now an embusqué is a slacker who lies in the safe ambush of a soft job. And an embusqué manqué is a slacker who fortuitously has failed to win the fungus wreath of slackerdom.
She flushed deep red.
“Je ne suis pas malhonnête, monsieur.”
Doggie spread himself elbow-wise over the table. The girl’s visible register of moods was fascinating.