"We haven't added a
Greek course yet."
"I know of a girl," mused Philip, as though speaking to himself,
"who spent five years in a girls' college, and she can talk
nothing but light English. Her name is Eileen Brokaw."
Jeanne looked up, but only to point to the coffee.
"It is done," she advised, "unless you like it bitter."
XIII
Philip knew that Jeanne was watching him as he lifted the coffee
from the fire and placed the pot on the ground to cool. His mind
was in a hopeless tangle--a riot of things he would like to say,
throbbing with a hundred questions he would like to ask, one after
another. And yet Jeanne seemed bewitchingly unconscious of his
uneasiness. Not one of his references to names and events so vital
to himself had in any way produced a change in her. Was she, after
all, innocent of all knowledge in the things he wished to know?
Was it possible that she was entirely ignorant as to the identity
of the men who had attacked Pierre and herself on the cliff? Was
it true that she did not know Eileen Brokaw, that she had never
heard of Lord Fitzhugh Lee, and that she had always lived among
the wild people of the north? By what miracle performed here in
the heart of a savage world could this girl talk to him in German
and Latin? Was she making fun of him? He turned to look at her and
found her dark, clear eyes upon him.
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