"I brought in monsieur to show him the photograph of _mon petiot_, the comrade who sent me the snuff," explained Toinette, rummaging in a cupboard. "May I stay and look at it?" asked Doggie, buttoning up his tunic. "_Mais parfaitement, monsieur_," said Jeanne. "It is Toinette's kitchen." "_Bien sur_," said the old woman, turning with the photograph, that of a solid young infantryman. Doggie made polite remarks. Toinette put on a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles and scanned the picture. Then she handed it to Jeanne. "Don't you think there is a great deal of resemblance?" Jeanne directed a comparing glance at Doggie and smiled. "Like two little soldiers in a pod," she said. Toinette talked of her _petiot_ who was at St. Mihiel. It was far away, very far. She sighed as though he were fighting remote in the Caucasus. Presently came the sharp ring of a bell. Jeanne put aside her work and rose. "It is my aunt who has awakened." But Toinette was already at the door. "I will go up, Ma'amselle Jeanne. Do not derange yourself." She bustled away. Once more the pair found themselves alone together. "If you don't continue your sewing, mademoiselle," said Doggie, "I shall think that I am disturbing you, and must bid you good night." Jeanne sat down and resumed her work. A sensation, more like laughter than anything else, fluttered round Doggie's heart. "_Voulez-vous vous asseoir, Monsieur--Trevor?_" "_Vous etes bien aimable, Mademoiselle Jeanne_," said Doggie, sitting down on a straight-backed chair by the oilcloth-covered kitchen table which was between them. "May I move the lamp slightly?" he asked, for it hid her from his view. He moved it somewhat to her left. It threw shadows over her features, accentuating their appealing sadness. He watched her, and thought of McPhail's words about the ghosts. He noted too, as the needle went in and out of the fabric, that her hands, though roughened by coarse work, were finely made, with long fingers and delicate wrists. He broke a silence that grew embarrassing. "You seem to have suffered greatly, Mademoiselle Jeanne," he said softly. Her lips quivered. "_Mais oui, monsieur._" "Monsieur Trevor," he said. She put her hands and needlework in her lap and looked at him full. "And you too have suffered?" "I? Oh no." "But, yes. I have seen too much of it not to know. I see in the eyes. Your two comrades to-day--they are good fellows--but they have not suffered. You are different." "Not a bit," he declared. "We're just little indistinguishable bits of the conglomerate Tommy." "And I, monsieur, have the honour to say that you are different." This was very flattering. More--it was sweet unction, grateful to many a bruise. "How?" said he.