“May I have a citronade?” she asked of Paul, and he replied:
“Let me order for you, will you? A little supper and some red wine. You are hungry.”
Marguerite looked at him swiftly and dropped her eyes.
“Yes, I am hungry,” she said, and a smile slowly trembled about her lips and then lit up her whole face. “I have never admitted it before.”
The hollows of her shoulders, the unnaturally bright, large eyes burning in her thin face, and an air of lassitude she had, told a story of starvation clearly enough. But the visitors at the Villa Iris had not the compassion nor the interest to read it, and Marguerite, for her own reasons, had always been at pains that it should not be read at all. Now, however, she smiled, glad of Paul’s care, glad that he had seen at once with such keen, sure eyes one of the things which were amiss with her. Paul ordered some chicken and a salad.
“But the waiter will be quick, won’t he?” she urged. “Madame is not very content if we are idle.”
Paul laughed.
“I’ll speak to her,” he said lightly. “I’ll tell her that she is not to worry you to-night.”
He rose half out of his chair, meaning to buy an evening of rest for Marguerite Lambert from the old harridan behind the Bar. A bottle of champagne would no doubt be the price and there was no compulsion upon them to drink it. But he was not yet upon his feet when the girl reached out her hand and caught his sleeve.
“No! Please!” she cried with a vehemence which quite startled him. “If she sends for me, I have got to go and you mustn’t say a word! Promise me!”