For a few minutes he stood studying it in silence—alternatively looking at his map and then through his glass. Then he dropped his map, put his glasses into the case, and turned to me—and smiled. He had a winning smile, sad and yet consoling, which lighted up a bronzed face, stern and weary. It was the sort of smile to which everything was permitted.
"Married?" he said.
You can imagine what he was like when I tell you that I answered right up, and only thought it was funny hours after—or at least I shook my head cheerfully.
"You don't live here alone?" he asked.
"But I do," I replied.
He looked at me bravely a moment, then off at the plain.
"Lived here long?" he questioned.
I told him that I had lived in this house only three months, but that I had lived in France for sixteen years.
Without a word he turned back toward the house, and for half a minute, for the first time in my life, I had a sensation that it looked strange for me to be an exile in a country that was not mine, and with no ties. For a penny I would have told him the history of my life. Luckily he did not give me time. He just strode down to the gate, and by the time he had his foot in the stirrup I had recovered.
"Is there anything I can do for you, captain?" I asked.