"Yes," she answered, and took it from his hand to carry it to the table. He followed her, and stood at her side as she poured the fresh cup out.
"It is my impression," he said, with serene illiberality, "that she did not remember him at all."
"Yes, she did," Bertha replied. "She remembers everybody. That is one of her gifts. She has a great many gifts."
"I did not place implicit confidence in her intimation that she remembered me," he proceeded, still serenely. "I liked the statement, and saw the good taste of it, and the excellent reasons for its being true; but I managed to restrain the naïve impulses of a trusting nature. And it doesn't strike me as being so entirely plausible that she should have remembered Tredennis."
He paused suddenly and looked at Bertha's hand, in which she held the sugar-tongs and a lump of sugar.
"Will you have one lump, or two?" she asked.
Then he looked from her hand to her face. Her hand was trembling and her face was entirely without color. The look of strained steadiness in her uplifted eyes was a shock to him. It seemed to him that any one who chanced to glance at her must see it.
"You have been standing too long," he said. "You have tired yourself out again."
He took the cup of coffee from her.