story. The English during the great
retreat had rendered her unforgettable services. She was a girl of a
generously responsive nature. She would pay her debt of gratitude to
the English soldier. Her fine _vale_ on the memorable night of rain
was part payment of her debt to England. Yes. Let him get things in
the right perspective.... She had made friends with him because he was
one of the few private soldiers who could speak her language. It was
but natural that she should tell him of the sunken packet. It was one
of the most vital facts of her life. But just an outside fact: nothing
to do with any shy mysterious workings of her woman's soul. She might
have told the story to any man in the company without derogation from
her womanly dignity. And any man Jack of them, having Jeanne's
confidence, having the knowledge of the situation of the ruined well,
having the God-sent opportunity of recovering the treasure, would, of
absolute certainty, have done exactly what he, Doggie, had done.
Supposing Mo Shendish had been the privileged person, instead of
himself. What, by way of thanks, could Jeanne have written? A letter
practically identical.

Practically. A very comfortable sort of word; but Doggie's cultivated
mind disliked it. It was a slovenly word, a makeshift for the hard
broom of clean thought. This infernal "practically" begged the whole
question. Jeanne would not have sentimentalized to Mo Shendish about
ships passing in the night. No, she wouldn't, in spite of all his
efforts to persuade himself that she would. Well, perhaps dear old Mo
was a rough, uneducated sort of chap. He could not have established
with Jeanne such delicate relations of friendship as exist between
social equals. Obviously the finer shades of her letter would have
varied according to the personality of the recipient. Jeanne and
himself, owing to the abnormal conditions of war, had suddenly become
very intimate friends. The war, as she imagined, must part them for
ever. She bade him a touching and dignified farewell, and that was the
end of the matter. It had all been an idyllic episode; beginning,
middle, and end; neatly rounded off; a thing done, and done
with--except as a strange romantic memory. It was all over. As long as
he remained in the army, a condition for which, as a private soldier,
he was not responsible, how could he see Jeanne again? By the time he
rejoined, the regiment would be many miles away from Frelus. This, in
her clear,