When she had seated herself on the pile of blankets they had arranged for her, Josephine looked across at Philip, squatted Indian-fashion opposite her, and smiled apologetically.
"I'm afraid your opinion of me isn't getting better," she said.

"I'm not much of a--a--sport--to let you men get supper by yourselves, am I?
You see--I'm taking advantage of my birthday." "Oui, ma belle princesse," laughed Jean softly, a tender look coming into his thin, dark face.

"And do you remember that other birthday, years and years ago, when you took advantage of Jean Croisset while he was sleeping?
Non, you do not remember ?" "Yes, I remember." "She was six, M'sieur," explained Jean, "and while I slept, dreaming of one gr-r-rand paradise, she cut off my moustaches.

They were splendid, those moustaches, but they would never grow right after that, and so I have gone shaven." In spite of her efforts to appear cheerful, Philip could see that Josephine was glad when the meal was over, and that she was forcing herself to sip at a second cup of tea on their account.

He accompanied her back to the tent after she had bade Jean good-night, and as they stood for a moment before the open flap there filled the girl's face a look that was partly of self-reproach and partly of wistful entreaty for his understanding and forgiveness.
"You have been good to me," she said.