Instead of answering his question, she said again, “What can I do for you?”
And then, noticing that behind the pile of books was an empty glass, “D’you want something to drink?”
“I did—horribly. But now I’m no longer thirsty—or, rather, I’m only thirsty for information.”
It was amazing to see how he had changed in the last few minutes, and yet the long outlines of his body under the eiderdown looked like those of a skeleton.
Jean Bower looked round.
“The milk and soda water are over there—quite out of my reach. You may have already observed that Mrs. Lightfoot has nothing in common with Florence Nightingale.”
She turned and saw that on the chest of drawers there stood a siphon and a jug of milk. She went over and brought them both back with her.
“D’you remember the scrumptious refreshments at that cricket match, Miss Bower?”
She looked down into his pallid, smiling face, and as she met the direct glance of his heavy-lidded gray eyes, there came over Jean Bower a strong feeling that she had seen him before.
“Can’t you guess who I am?”