"And do you think I'd be telling—even if I was?"
"You might."
"And I won't. Will you have your coffee with cream and sugar?"
"If you please."
It was real cream and real sugar—some magic of Madame Toupin's, she explained, and the brioches were unsurpassed. And so they sat and ate, Moira chattering gayly of plans for the day, while the ancient dowager upon the easel who had braved the Fokkers and the long-range cannon looked down upon them benignly and with a little touch of pity, too, as though she knew how much of their courage was to be required of them.
Horton ate silently, putting in a word here and there, content to listen to her plans, to watch the deft motions of her fingers and the changing expressions upon her face. Once or twice he caught her looking at him with a puzzled line at her brows, but he let his glance pass and spoke of casual things, the location of the bank where he must get his money, the excellence of the coffee, the kindness of Nurse Newberry, aware that these topics were not the ones uppermost in his mind, or in hers.
"You're a bit subdued this morning, Harry dear," she said at last, whimsically. "Maybe that goose was too much for you."
"Subdued!" he laughed.
"You have all the air of a man with something on his conscience. You used to wear that look in America, and I let you be. But somehow things seemed different with us two. Would you be willing to tell me?"
"There isn't a thing—except—except your kindness. I don't deserve that, you know."