It was, and he said so.
"You like my studio?"
"It's great. And the portrait—may I see?"
"No—it doesn't go—on sent le souffle—a French dowager who braved the Fokkers when all her family were froussards—fled in terror. She deserves immortality."
"And you—were you not afraid of the bombardments?"
"Hardly—not after all the trouble we had getting here—Horrors!" she broke off suddenly and catching him by the hand dashed for the kitchen whence came an appetizing odor—"The goose! we've forgotten the goose," she cried, and proceeded to baste it skillfully. She commended his potatoes and bade him stir them in the pan while she made the salad dressing—much oil, a little vinegar, paprika, salt in a bowl with a piece of ice at the end of a fork.
He watched her curiously with the eyes of inexperience as she brought all the various operations neatly to a focus.
"Allons! It is done," she said finally—in French. "Go thou and sit at the table and I will serve."
But he wouldn't do that and helped her to dish the dinner, bringing it in and placing it on the table.
And at last they were seated vis-à-vis, Horton with his back to the fire, the glow of which played a pretty game of hide and seek with the shadows of her face. He let her carve the goose, and she did it skillfully, while he served the vegetables. They ate and drank to each other in vin ordinaire which was all that Moira could afford—after the prodigal expenditure for the pièce de résistance. Moira, her face a little flushed, talked gayly, while the spurious husband opposite sat watching her and grinning comfortably. He couldn't remember when he had been quite so happy in his life, or quite so conscience-stricken. And so he fell silent after a while, every impulse urging confession and yet not daring it.