“Merci! I ought not to have reproached you,” she said steadily. “C’est un grand malheur.”
“You are right. Life for me is no longer of much value.”
She looked at him in her penetrating way.
“I believe you,” she said. “For the moment, au revoir. You must be worn out with fatigue.”
She left him and walked through the straggling men, who made respectful way for her. All knew of her friendship with Doggie Trevor and all realized the nature of this interview. They liked Doggie because he was good-natured and plucky, and never complained and would play the whistle on march as long as breath enough remained in his body. As his uncle, the Dean, had said, breed told. In a curious, half-grudging way they recognized the fact. They laughed at his singular inefficiency in the multitudinous arts of the handy-man, proficiency in which is expected from the modern private, but they knew that he would go on till he dropped. And knowing that, they saved him from many a reprimand which his absurd efforts in the arts aforesaid would have brought upon him. And now that Doggie was gone, they deplored his loss. But so many had gone. So many had been deplored. Human nature is only capable of a certain amount of deploring while retaining its sanity. The men let the pale French girl, who was Doggie Trevor’s friend, pass by in respectful silence—and that, for them, was their final tribute to Doggie Trevor.
Jeanne passed into the kitchen. Toinette drew a sharp breath at the sight of her face.
“Quoi? Il n’est pas là?”
“No,” said Jeanne. “He is wounded.” It was impossible to explain to Toinette.
“Badly?”
“They don’t know.”