We did sleep, both of us. At least, she says she did. And she looked rested this morning, when I took the breakfast tray from the waiter and carried it to her. She was up, and dressed.
I have realized since that I did not succeed at all in my efforts to hide the serious mood that took possession of me from the moment I woke. She caught it. Every now and then she flashed an odd, puzzled glance at me.
Finally, when we had finished and I had put the tray in my room, she broached the subject that was uppermost in both our minds.
“Before we go any farther, Anthony dear, I am going to tell you—”
I stopped her.
“But Anthony, you must let me speak. You are giving up everything for me, and you don't even know—”
“I know all I wish to know now, dear.”
“But this is very important. I can't forgive myself, when I realize that you don't know what I have done—”
I could n't stand this. I simply took her two shoulders in my hands and made her look squarely at me; and I spoke with a sudden uprush of feeling.
“Dear, dear girl,” I said, “I'm not interested in what you have done. I am interested in what you are.”