“Not very seriously, mademoiselle.” Smithers, casting an indignant glance at his superior officer’s complacent smile, reassumed mastery of the situation. “A Boche sniper got him in the leg. It will put him out of service for a month or two. But there is no danger.”
“Grâce à Dieu!” said Jeanne.
She leaned for a while against the cask, her hands behind her, looking away from the two men. And the two young men stood, somewhat embarrassed, looking away from her and from each other. At last she said, with an obvious striving for the even note in her voice:
“I ask your pardon, messieurs, but sometimes sudden happiness is more overwhelming than misfortune. I am now quite at your service.”
“My God! she’s a wonder,” murmured Willoughby, who was fair, unmarried, and impressionable. “Go on with your dirty work.”
Smithers, conscious of linguistic superiority—in civil life he had been concerned with the wine trade in Bordeaux—proceeded to carry out his instructions. He turned over a leaf in his notebook and poised a ready pencil.
“I must ask you, mademoiselle, some formal questions.”
“Perfectly, monsieur,” said Jeanne.
“Where was this packet when last you saw it?”
She made her statement, calmly.