“Great Battle. British officers killed. Oh, let me see, Seer Marcous.”
“No, dear,” said I. “Go and eat your breakfast.”
She looked at me strangely. I tried to smile; but as I am an incompetent actor my grimace was a proclamation of disingenuousness.
“Why shouldn’t I read it?” she asked, quickly.
“Because I say you mustn’t, Carlotta.”
She continued to look at me. She had suddenly grown pale. I stirred my tea and made a pretence of sipping it.
“Go on with your breakfast, my child,” I repeated.
“There is something—something about him in the paper,” said Carlotta. “He is a British officer.”
In the face of her intuition further concealment appeared useless. Besides, sooner or later she would have to know.
“He is a British officer no longer, dear,” said I.