“Badly?” he asked, as our glances met.
“Not badly, in one way,” I explained to him. “She’s not in any danger, I mean. But her plane caught fire, and she’s been burned about the face.”
His lips parted slightly, as he sat staring at me. And slowly up into his colorless face crept a blighted look, a look which brought a vague yet vast unhappiness to me as I sat contemplating it.
“Do you mean she’s disfigured,” he asked, “that it’s something she’ll always—”
“I’m afraid so,” I said, when he did not finish his sentence.
He sat looking down at his empty plate for a long time.
“And you want me to go?” he finally said.
“Yes,” I told him.
He was silent for still another ponderable space of time.
“But do you understand—” he began. And for the second time he didn’t finish his sentence.