"You looked Japanese when Swanson said he knew the pilot."
Dugan became serious. "Looked Japanese? How do you mean that?"
Sarah persisted. She felt intolerably shy, trying to tell him his own business, and admitting that she had been watching him so specially and so intently. She squeezed his arm, as if to make her words casually affectionate, and then felt herself more of a fool than ever. Dugan was smiling at her with nothing more than serious attentiveness. Her thoughts went out of focus when she tried to think of how many possible Dugans there were behind that commonplace manner; among them all, there must be one who understood her motives. She stammered and finally said, "I happened to be looking at you. When he said that his friend was killed, you let your face go blank."
"Deadpan," said Dugan flatly. "That's what a Japanese would do. And I did it?"
"Yes, and it even made your features look Asiatic, somehow. You didn't even look like an American."
She felt the muscles of his arm stiffen where her hand touched his sleeve. He kept his voice even, but did not look at her, nor smile, this time: "And do I usually look like an American to you?"
"Of course." She smiled up at him, trying to catch his eye. "A little strange, perhaps, but strange in a nice way." She felt reckless. "I'd even call you handsome. But when you had that one particular expression, it didn't fit. It gave you away."
Dugan stopped as they reached the jeep. He looked straight at her. "I like you, Sarah, and I hope you like me. But don't like me too much. I have things to do that don't leave me much time to be myself. Anyway, thanks for catching me. But you needn't worry. If I hadn't felt at home with you and Swanson, I'd have been on my guard. The expressions fit. I make them fit."
And what, thought Sarah, can I say to that? She was glad to be able to turn her back and to climb into the jeep beside the driver. Dugan clambered into the back seat, and off they went.