“Oh, m’sieu’!” she said in English, “it’s kind of you to call. I am quite glad—yes.”
Then she turned round to put the strawberries upon a table, but he was beside her in an instant and took the dish out of her hands. Placing it on the table, he took a couple of strawberries in his fingers.
“May I?” he asked in French.
She nodded as she whipped off the sunbonnet, and replied in her own language:
“Certainly, as many as you want.”
He bit into one, but got no further with it. Her back was turned to him, and he threw the berry out of the window. She felt rather than saw what he had done. She saw that he was fagged. She instantly thought of a cordial she had in the house, the gift of a nun from the Ursuline Convent in Quebec; a precious little bottle which she had kept for the anniversary of her wedding day. If she had been told in the morning that she would open that bottle now, and for a stranger, she probably would have resented the idea with scorn.
His disguised weariness still exciting her sympathy, she offered him a chair.
“You will sit down, m’sieu’?” she asked. “It is very warm.”
She did not say: “You look very tired.” She instinctively felt that it would suggest the delicate state of his health.
The chair was inviting enough, with its chintz cover and wicker seat, but he would never admit fatigue. He threw his leg half jauntily over the end of the table and said: