The silver tongs dropped one, two, three—and a cherry tartlet. “I don’t know why you’re giving me all these,” she said, and nearly smiled. “I shan’t eat them; I couldn’t!”
I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her eyes, and really did smile. “Of course,” said she. “I always expect people to.”
But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away.
“You utter little beast!” said she.
Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, “Will you be abroad long?”
But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was trying to remember something.... She was miles away.
“I—don’t—know,” she said slowly, from that far place.
“I suppose you prefer it to London. It’s more—more—”
When I didn’t go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. “More—?”
“Enfin—gayer,” I cried, waving my cigarette.