“Ah, madame”—Jeanne pointed to the mourning—“you do not come to tell me he is dead?”
Peggy smiled. “No. I hope not.”
“Ah!” Jeanne sighed in relief, “I thought——”
“This is for my husband,” said Peggy quietly.
“Ah, madame! je demande bien pardon. J’ai dû vous faire de la peine. Je n’y pensais pas——”
Jeanne was in great distress. Peggy smiled again. “Widows dress differently in England and France.” She looked around and her eyes fell upon a bench by the wall. “Could we sit down and have a little talk?”
“Pardon, madame, c’est que je suis un peu émue …” said Jeanne.
She led the way to the bench. They sat down together, and for a feminine second or two took stock of each other. Jeanne’s first rebellious instinct said: “I was right.” In her furs and her perfect millinery and perfect shoes and perfect black silk stockings that appeared below the short skirt, Peggy, blue-eyed, fine-featured, the fine product of many generations of scholarly English gentlefolk, seemed to incarnate her vague conjectures of the social atmosphere in which Doggie had his being. Her peasant blood impelled her to suspicion, to a half-grudging admiration, to self-protective jealousy. The Englishwoman’s ease of manner, in spite of her helter-skelter French, oppressed her with an angry sense of inferiority. She was also conscious of the blue overall and close-fitting cap. Yet the Englishwoman’s smile was kind and she had lost her husband…. And Peggy, looking at this girl with the dark, tragic eyes and refined, pale face and graceful gestures, in the funny instinctive British way tried to place her socially. Was she a lady? It made such a difference. This was the girl for whom Doggie had performed his deed of knight-errantry; the girl whom she proposed to take back to Doggie. For the moment, discounting the uniform which might have hidden a midinette or a duchess, she had nothing but the face and the gestures and the beautifully modulated voice to go upon, and between the accent of the midinette and the duchess—both being equally charming to her English ear—Peggy could not discriminate. She had, however, beautiful, capable hands, and took care of her finger-nails.
Jeanne broke the tiny spell of embarrassed silence.
“I am at your disposal, madame.”