g her intense pain, for she
positively closed her eyes as I moved them away.

The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the
big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie
buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little
trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a
little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to
her cup. She didn't notice it--didn't see it--until suddenly, quite by
chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered.

"Dreadfully sweet!" said she.

A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came
round with a tray of pastries--row upon row of little freaks, little
inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh, I'm
not at all hungry. Take them away."

He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look--it must have
been satisfactory--for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair,
a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh
strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy
swerved away she held up her plate.

"Oh well, give me one," said she.

The silver tongs dropped one, two, three--and a cherry tartlet. "I don't
know why you're giving me all these," she said, and nearly smiled. "I
shan't eat them; I couldn't!"

I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even
asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened
her eyes, and really did smile. "Of course," said she. "I always expect
people to."

But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry
horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table.
Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed
hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away.

"You utter little beast!" said she.

Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be
abroad long?"

But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was
trying to remember something... She was miles away.

"I--don't--know," she said slowly, from that far place.

"I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more--more--"

When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled.
"More--?"

"Enfin--gayer," I cried, waving my cigarette.

But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, "Oh well, that
depends!" was all she could safel