“I was not surprised,” she reassured him.
“Because I have not eaten to-day before,” he explained.
“Really?”
“Yes, of a truthfulness. I am most drôle as that. I may never eat when I am much troubled.”
“Dear me, have you been troubled to-day?”
He looked at Rosina, whose face blazed yet deeper.
“I have said that I may not eat,” he repeated simply.
Molly laid down her spoon and glanced out of the window again. Her feminine instinct divined what was to be.
“And madame your friend, she is not ill, I hope?” he inquired politely, as the waiter removed his soup.
“No,” said the Irish girl, slowly, “or—that is,—yes, yes, she is.”