Not a trace of change could I distinguish. He was young, not too young, grave, and filled with some exaltation that did not quite leave him as our eyes looked into one another's. "I must beg your pardon," I muttered. He advanced towards me. "Why--Sir George!" Then swiftly he glanced at her, she as swiftly at him. The next moment her cheek was against my breast. "Are they here?" she murmured in a failing voice. I did not pretend not to understand. "No, Jennie, I'm here alone." "How did you know we were here?" "I'm staying in Dinan for a few days. I saw you last night." She lifted her head. Again their eyes sought one another's. There was something they were aching to communicate. The room had two chairs, one a church chair with a rush bottom, the other a straight-backed piece of carved Breton work, but so old that its colour had become a dry dusty grey. He placed this chair for me, and sat down again on the corn-bin. He was softly kneading his brown hands, as I had formerly seen him do in Cambridge Circus. It is odd how these tricks cling to one. Then, his face again transfigured with that undivulged joy they shared, he looked up at me. Jennie was back at her buttering again; apparently he was to do the telling. I noticed that at any rate he had not forgotten to buy her a ring. He caught my glance at it, and nodded joyously. "That's it," he said. Once before he had asked me to talk French to him. I now had a reason for speaking it unasked. "Qu'est-ce que veut dire----" I said. He laughed aloud. "That's all right--you can talk English! Can't he talk English, Jennie?" Jennie nodded. "Suppose you talk it," I said. "Rather! I'm going to tell him, Jennie.... English? Why, that's the whole thing! Yesterday morning when I woke up"--he glanced towards the bed by the window--"I hardly dared to believe it! They were talking down in the street or somewhere, and all at once I wondered--what I mean is that I couldn't quite catch it. It all seemed so quick and difficult, just a lot of jabbering. Not a bit like we learned it: 'Je veux une plume, de l'encre et du papier'--you know. So I lay there thinking, looking up at the ceiling. Then I had an idea. I got quietly out of bed and went to the door there." He nodded in the direction of the door now. "I opened the door and called down to Madame. I've done that every morning for café-au-lait, you see. Now here's the point." He emphasised the point with a forefinger. "There's a Breton word for café-au-lait. Don't ask me what it is; I don't ever want to hear it again. Anyway, I'd used that word for three mornings, and that morning I couldn't remember it for the life of me. I thought perhaps if I just went to the door and called without stopping to think it might come of itself, but not it! I had to ask for café-au-lait, and of course up it came all right....