She bent her head with adorable diffidence. “Monsieur Scarlett, I have never before had a friend who thought first of me and last of himself.”
I leaned on the back of the bench, resting my bandaged forehead on my hand.
She looked up after a moment, and her face grew serious.
“Are you suffering?” she asked. “Your face is white as my sleeve.”
“I feel curiously tired,” I said, smiling.
“Then you must have some tea, and I will brew it myself. You shall not object! No—it is useless, because I am determined. And you shall lie down in the little tea-room, where I found you that day when you first came to Trécourt.”
“I shall be very happy to do anything—if you are there.”
“Even drink tea when you abhor it? Then I certainly ought to reward you with my presence at the rite.... Are you dizzy? You are terribly pale.... Would you lean on my arm?”
I was not dizzy, but I did so; and if such deceit is not pardonable, there is no justice in this world or in the next.
The tea was hot and harmless; I lay thinking while she sat in the sunny window-corner, nibbling biscuit and marmalade, and watching me gravely.