She shook her head.
'No, monsieur.'
They walked on in silence for a tune.
At last he said:
'I shall never be able to thank you for what you have done for us.'
She said: 'I have benefited the most.'
'What do you mean?' he asked.
She said: 'It was a very bad time when you came.
I do not know if I can make you understand.'
They walked on in the hot sun in silence for a time.
'I loved John very much,' she said simply.
'Above all things, I wanted to be an Englishwoman. And I should have been one but for the war.
Because we meant to marry.
Would you have minded that very much?'
He shook his head.
'I should have welcomed you.
Don't you know that?'
She said: 'I know that now.
But at the time I was terribly afraid of you.
We might have been married if I had not been so foolish, and delayed.'
She was silent for a minute.
Then John - John was killed.
And at the same time nothing went right any more.
The Germans drove us back, the Belgians surrendered, and the English ran back to their own country from Dunkerque and France was left to fight alone.
Then all the papers, and the radio, began to say bad things of the English, that they were treacherous, that they had never really meant to share the battle with us.
Horrible things, monsieur."
'Did you believe them?' he asked quietly.
She said: 'I was more unhappy than you could believe.'
'And now?
Do you still believe those things?'
She said: 'I believe this, that there was nothing shameful in my love for John.
I think that if we had been married, if I had become an Englishwoman, I should have been happy for the remainder of my life.' She paused. 'That is a very precious thought, monsieur.
For a few weeks it was clouded with doubts and spoilt.
Now it is clear once more; I have regained the thing that I had lost.
I shall not lose it again.'
They breasted a little rise, and there before them lay the river, winding past the little group of houses that was l'Abervrach, through a long lane of jagged reefs out to the open sea.
The girl said: That is l'Abervrach.
Now you are very near the end of your journey, Monsieur Howard.'
They walked in silence, leading the horse, down the road to the river and along the water-front, past the cement factory, past the few houses of the village, past the lifeboat-house and the little quay.
Beside the quay there was a German E-boat apparently in trouble with her engines, for a portion of her deck amidships was removed and was lying on the quay beside a workshop lorry; men in overalls were busy on her.
A few German soldiers lounged on the quay, watching the work and smoking.
They went on past the estaminet and out into the country again.
Presently they turned up the hill in a lane full of sweet-briar, and so came to the little farm of Loudeac.
A peasant in a rusty red canvas pullover met them at the gate.
Howard said: 'From Quintin.'
The man nodded and indicated the midden.
'Put it there,' he said. 'And then go away quickly.
I wish you good luck, but you must not stay here.'
That is very well understood.'
The man vanished into the house, nor did they see him again.