"_Tais-toi, Annette!_" exclaimed Susan sharply, her eyes too gleaming with indignation. "It is not your place to speak so to m'sieu, a man old enough to be your father--and more than a father to me! For shame! His surprise was unavoidable! I have just given him a shock--unexpected news! Good news, however, I am glad to say. Now leave us!" "On the contrary," replied Nurse Annette, four feet eleven of uncompromising and awful dignity, "I am in charge here, and it is m'sieu who will leave--_tout court_! But I regret my _vivacité_, _m'sieu_!" "It is nothing, mademoiselle. You have acted as you should. It is for me to offer my regrets. But--when may I return?" "To-morrow, m'sieu," said Nurse Annette. "Naturally," said Susan. "Now sit down, please, Ambo, and listen to me." For an instant the stiletto points glinted dangerously; then Nurse Annette giggled. That is precisely what Nurse Annette did; she giggled. Then she twirled about on her toes and left us--very quietly, yet not without a certain malicious ostentation, closing the door. The French are a brave people, an intelligent and industrious people; but they exhibit at times a levity almost childlike in the descendants of so ancient and so deeply civilized a race.... "I knew nothing about it myself, Ambo," Susan was saying, "until I was beginning to feel a little stronger, after my operations at Dunkirk. Then Mona brought me letters--three from you, dear, and one long one from Jimmy. But no letter from Phil. I'd hoped, foolishly I suppose, for that. Jimmy's was the dearest, funniest letter I've ever read; it made me laugh and cry all at once. It wasn't a bit good for me, Ambo. It used me all up! And I kept wondering what you must be thinking. You see, he said in it he had written you." "I've had no letter from Jimmy for at least five or six months," I replied. "So many letters start bravely off over here," sighed Susan, "and then just vanish--like Phil. How many heartbreaks they must have caused, all those vanished letters--and men. And how silly of me to think about it! There must be some fatal connection, Ambo, between being sick and being sentimental. I suppose sentimentality's always one symptom of weakness. I've never been so disgustingly maudlin as these past weeks--never!" "So Jimmy's married," I repeated stupidly, for at least the third time. "Yes," smiled Susan, "to little Jeanne-Marie Valérie Josephine Aulard. I haven't seen her, of course, but I feel as if I knew her well. They've been married now almost a year." She paused again. "Why don't you look gladder, Ambo? Why don't you ask questions? You must be dying to know why Jimmy kept it a secret from us so long." I had not dared to ask questions, for I believed I could guess why Jimmy had kept it a secret from us so long. For the first time in his life, I thought, Jimmy had been a craven. He had been afraid to tell Susan of an event which he must know would be like a knife in her heart.