“Will you not come in, monsieur?” she said.
He readily entered the kitchen, still holding the handkerchief in his hand, but he did not give it to her. “Where will you sit?” she said, looking round. “I’m very busy. You mustn’t mind my working,” she added, going to the brass bashin at the fire. “This preserve will spoil if I don’t watch it.”
He seated himself on the veille, and nodded his head. “I like this,” he said. “I’m fond of kitchens. I always was. When I was fifteen I was sent away from home because I liked the stables and the kitchen too well. Also I fell in love with the cook.”
Guida flushed, frowned, her lips tightened, then presently a look of amusement broke over her face, and she burst out laughing.
“Why do you tell me these things?” she said. “Excuse me, monsieur, but why do you always tell unpleasant things about yourself? People think ill of you, and otherwise they might think—better.”
“I don’t want them to think better till I am better,” he answered. “The only way I can prevent myself becoming a sneak is by blabbing my faults. Now, I was drunk last night—very, very drunk.”
A look of disgust came into her face.
“Why do you relate this sort of thing to me, monsieur? Do—do I remind you of the cook at home, or of an oyster-girl in Jersey?”
She was flushing, but her voice was clear and vibrant, the look of the eyes direct and fearless. How dared he hold her handkerchief like that!
“I tell you them,” he answered slowly, looking at the handkerchief in his hand, then raising his eyes to hers with whimsical gravity, “because I want you to ask me never to drink again.”