But when they reached the studio Moira set with alacrity at putting things to rights and preparing the evening meal.
"We shall be having cold goose and a bit of salad, you extravagant person," she said. "I feel as though I had no right to be eating again for a week."
And so they dined upon the remains of their feast, but warmed by the cheerful blaze, both conscious of the imminent hour of seclusion and affinity. Moira had little to say and in the silences Jim caught her gaze upon him once or twice as though in inquiry or incomprehension, and wondered whether in their long day together, he had said or done anything which might have led her to suspect the truth. But he had been cautious, following her leads in conversation, and playing his discreditable role with rather creditable skill. The end was near. He would see Harry to-night at Javet's and to-morrow he would tell her, but it was like the thought of death to him—after to-day—and he failed to hide from her the traces of his misery.
"I wish that you would tell me what worries you," she said gently, after a long silence.
He started forward in his chair by the fire. "Er—nothing," he stammered, "there's nothing."
"Yes, there is," she said, evenly. "I know. I've felt it all day—even when you seemed most happy." And then quickly, "Is it me that you're worrying about?"
"About you?" he asked to gain time, and then, grasping at the straw she threw him, "about—you—yes—Moira," he said quietly.
It was the first definite return to the topic of the morning, which they had both banished as though by an understanding. But Moira was persistent.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because—because I don't deserve—all this—from you."