“Sara!” he repeated, a ring of incredulity in his tones.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I've come back.”
She moved towards him, trying to control the trembling that had seized her limbs.
“I—I've just come back from France,” she added, making a lame attempt to speak conventionally.
It was an effort to hold out her hand, and, when his closed around it, she felt her whole body thrill at his touch, just as it had been wont to thrill in those few, short, golden days when their mutual happiness had been undarkened by any shadow from the past. Swiftly, as though all at once afraid, she snatched her hand from his clasp.
“What have you been doing in France?” he asked.
“Nursing,” she answered briefly. “Did you think I could stay here and do—nothing, at such a time as this?”
There was accusation in her tone, but if he felt that her speech reflected in any way upon himself, he showed no sign of it. His eyes were roving over her, marking the changes wrought in the year that had passed since they had met—the sharpened contour of her face, the too slender body, the white fragility of the bare hand which grasped the handle of the basket she was carrying.
“You are looking very ill,” he said, at last, abruptly.
“I'm not ill,” she replied indifferently. “Only a bit over-tired. As soon as I have had a thorough rest I am going back to France.”