"No?"
"You see I had a little money of my own, and twenty pounds I got in London. You and—and Henri have done miracles for me. But soon I shall have used all my own money, except enough to take me back. And now I shall have to start on my English notes. After that—"
"You are too good to the men. These cigarettes, now—you could do without them."
"But they are very cheap, and they mean so much, Jean."
She sat still, her hands before her on the table. From the kitchen came the bubbling of the eternal soup. Suddenly a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She had a hatred of crying in public, but Jean apparently did not notice.
"The trouble, mademoiselle, is that you are trying to feed and comfort too many."
"Jean," she said suddenly, "where is Henri?"
"In England, I think."
The only clear thought in Sara Lee's mind was that Henri was not in France, and that he had gone without telling her. She had hurt him horribly. She knew that. He might never come back to the little house of mercy. There was, in Henri, for all his joyousness, an implacable strain. And she had attacked his honor. What possible right had she to do that?
The memory of all his thoughtful kindness came back, and it was a pale and distracted Sara Lee who looked across the table at Jean.