She led him by the hand into the cheerful supper-room, seating herself at the head of the table, and pouring out his tea with that air of dignity so pretty in youthful matrons.
"You said you were hungry, Leger, and yet you eat nothing."
"I meant that I was thirsty;" and he handed back the cup which he had emptied at a draught.
As she prepared his tea he watched every graceful movement—he looked intently into the face beaming with happiness, searching for undiscovered lines about the temples and lips which might betray the guilty secrets hidden in her heart. That face still looked to him as pure as the unclouded heaven at noonday. If he could only believe it! if he could only give himself up to his past confidence again! Oh, God! if he could, he would resign at that moment every dollar of his wealth, every throb of his ambition, and stand with her, outcast from the world, on any remotest island of the sea.
"I was detained a few moments in the street," he observed, presently. "I met an old friend, just returning from abroad."
"Indeed?"
Her voice was pleasant—she showed interest, as she always did when he addressed her, but no agitation.
"Perhaps you can guess who it was?"
"I don't remember who of our friends are away, except Maurice Gurnell."
His keen look did not disconcert her; she seemed only a trifle surprised at his own manner. He exerted himself to appear natural; to force not only calmness but lightness—he did not speak nor look like a man on whose soul happiness was poising herself, ready to take flight forever.