"May one not be lighthearted when all goes well?" I asked.
"One may," she answered. Then her eyes fell and she coloured painfully. "But not two. I slept at my post. Oh! how could I?" Her voice was quite despairing and bitterly contemptuous.
I bit at the leg of a chicken which I held in my fingers. "After all, you are a woman, you know," I commented, with my mouth full. "This chick's prime—done to a turn."
"How tired you must be!"
"I'm not complaining. Nor do I grudge you the extra rest. You look better. Hungry?"
"Y-yes," she admitted.
"Then don't be a ninny spending time in vain regrets. Fall to and repair your waste tissues. In plain English—eat."
She sat down on a ruined column and I handed her a plate.
"You look—positively merry!" she said. "You are nursing some—pleasant—or profitable reflection." She considered the words with care.
"I have discovered that I may have—told the truth to your father last night after all. By accident."