Nancy glanced up, as St. Jacques appeared in the doorway with Brock at his side. At the farther end of the room, Barth also glanced up. The action was wholly involuntary, however, and Barth sought to disguise with a yawn his ill-timed manifestation of interest.
“You look as if you had something of importance to announce,” Nancy replied, as she rose and crossed the room to the door.
“So we have. What are you going to do, this evening?”
“That isn’t an announcement; it is a question,” she suggested.
St. Jacques laughed. Nancy always enjoyed the sudden lighting of his face. At rest, it was almost heavy in its dark, intent earnestness; at a chance word, it could turn mirthful as the face of a child, gentle with the sympathetic gentleness of a strong man. Just now, the rollicking child was uppermost.
“How can I tell the difference? I am not English,” he answered.
Nancy cocked the white of one eye towards the far corner of the room.
“Neither am I,” she said demurely.
Brock’s answer was enigmatic; but Nancy held the key.
“It is always possible to be grateful to Allah,” he said, low, but not so low as to keep the color from rising in Barth’s cheeks.