“If you please,” said Faversham, and the gravity of his tone struck upon his companion suddenly as something unexpected and noteworthy.  Plessy drew himself together and for the first time took stock of his host as of a possible adversary.  He remarked the agitation of his face, the beads of perspiration upon his forehead, the restless fingers, and beyond all these a certain hunted look in the eyes with which his experience had made him familiar.  He nodded his head once or twice slowly as though he were coming to a definite conclusion about Faversham.  Then he sat bolt upright.

“Ah,” said he with a laugh.  “I can answer a question which puzzled me a little this afternoon,” and he sank back again in his chair with an easy confidence and puffed the smoke of his cigarette from his mouth.  Faversham was not sufficiently composed to consider the meaning of Plessy’s remark.  He put it aside from his thoughts as an evasion.

“You were to tell me, I think, why you read the letter.”

“Certainly,” answered Plessy.  He twirled his moustache, his voice had lost its suavity and had taken on an accent of almost contemptuous raillery.  He even winked at his two brother officers, he was beginning to play with Faversham.  “I read the letter to illustrate how strange, how very strange, are your English girls.  Here is one of them who writes to me.  I am grateful—­oh, beyond words, but I think to myself what a different thing the letter would be if it had been written by a Frenchwoman.  There would have been some hints, nothing definite you understand, but a suggestion, a delicate, provoking suggestion of herself, like a perfume to sting one into a desire for a nearer acquaintance.  She would delicately and without any appearance of intention have permitted me to know her colour, perhaps her height, perhaps even to catch an elusive glimpse of her face.  Very likely a silk thread of hair would have been left inadvertently clinging to a sheet of the paper.  She would sketch perhaps her home and speak remorsefully of her boldness in writing.  Oh, but I can imagine the letter, full of pretty subtleties, alluring from its omissions, a vexation and a delight from end to end.  But this, my friend!” He tossed the letter carelessly upon the table-cloth.  “I am grateful from the bottom of my heart, but it has no art.”

At once Geoffrey Faversham’s hand reached out and closed upon the letter.

“You have told me why you have read it aloud.”

“Yes,” said Plessy, a little disconcerted by the quickness of Faversham’s movement.

“Now I will tell you why I allowed you to read it to the end.  I was of the same mind as that English girl whose name we both know.  I could not believe that a man, brave as I knew you to be, could outside his bravery be so contemptible.”

The words were brought out with a distinct effort.  None the less they were distinctly spoken.

A startled exclamation broke from the two subalterns.  Plessy commenced to bluster.