I kept looking over at Charles, who had sat down and started to drink his tea, using both hands on the cup. I hoped he’d turn around, but he didn’t.
Esme stood up. `Il faut que je parte aussi,” she said, with a sigh. “Do you know French?”
I got up from my own chair, with mixed feelings of regret and confusion. Esme and I shook hands; her hand, as I’d suspected, was a nervous hand, damp at the palm. I told her, in English, how very much I’d enjoyed her company.
She nodded. “I thought you might,” she said. “I’m quite communicative for my age.” She gave her hair another experimental touch. “I’m dreadfully sorry about my hair,” she said. “I’ve probably been hideous to look at.”
“Not at all! As a matter of fact, I think a lot of the wave is coming back already.”
She quickly touched her hair again. “Do you think you’ll be coming here again in the immediate future?” she asked. “We come here every Saturday, after choir practice.”
I answered that I’d like nothing better but that, unfortunately, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to make it again.
“In other words, you can’t discuss troop movements,” said Esme. She made no move to leave the vicinity of the table. In fact, she crossed one foot over the other and, looking down, aligned the toes of her shoes. It was a pretty little execution, for she was wearing white socks and her ankles and feet were lovely. She looked up at me abruptly. “Would you like me to write to you?” she asked, with a certain amount of color in her face. “I write extremely articulate letters for a person my—”
“I’d love it.” I took out pencil and paper and wrote down my name, rank, serial number, and A.P.O. number.
“I shall write to you first,” she said, accepting it, “so that you don’t feel compromised in any way.” She put the address into a pocket of her dress. “Goodbye,” she said, and walked back to her table.