him when they drove up the hill by the Boulevard St. Michel —Boul' Miché she called it – reached the Luxembourg Gardens and then turning into a smaller street were presently deposited at their porte cochère. Her air of gayety was infectious and she presented him to the good Madame Toupin, who came out to meet them with the air of one greeting an ambassador.
"Welcome, Monsieur le Lieutenant. Madame Horton has promised us this visit since a long time."
"Merci, Madame."
"Enter, Monsieur – this house is honored. Thank the bon Dieu for the Americans."
Jim Horton bowed and followed Moira into the small court and up the stairway, experiencing a new sense of guilt at having his name coupled so familiarly with Moira's. Harry's name too – . And yet the circumstances of the marriage were so strange, the facts as to her actual relations with her husband so patent, that he found himself resenting Moira's placid acceptance of the appellation. There was something back of it all that he did not know… But Moira gave him no time to think of the matter, conducting him into the large studio and showing him through the bedroom and kitchen, where she proudly exhibited her goose (and Jim Horton's) that she was to cook. And after he had deposited his luggage in a room nearby which he was to occupy, she removed her gloves in a business-like manner, took off her hat and coat, and invited him into the kitchen.
"Allons, Monsieur," she said gayly in French, as she rolled up her sleeves.
"We shall now cook a goose, in this modern apparatus so kindly furnished by the Compagnie de Gaz. There's a large knife in the drawer. You will now help me to cut up the potatoes – Julienne, – and the carrots which we shall stew. Then some lettuce and a beautiful dessert from the pâtisserie– and a demi-tasse. What more can the soul of man desire?"
"Rien," he replied with a triumphant grin of understanding from behind the dish pan. "Absolument rien."
"Ah, you do understand," she cried in English. "Was she a blonde – cendrée? Or dark with sloe-eyes? Or red-haired? If she was red-haired, Harry, I'll be scratching her eyes out. No?"
He shook his head and laughed.
"She was black and white and her name was Ollendorff."
"You'll still persist in that deception?"
"I do."
"You're almost too proficient."
"You had better not try me too far."
She smiled brightly at him over the fowl which she was getting ready for the pan, stuffing it with a dressing already prepared.
"I wonder how far I might be trying you, Harry dear," she said mischievously.
He glanced at her.
"I don't know," he said quietly "but I think I've learned something of the meaning of patience in the army."
"Then God be praised!" she ejaculated with air of piety, putting the fowl into the pan.
"Here. Cut. Slice to your heart's content, thin – like jack-straws. But spare your fingers."
She sat him in a chair and saw him begin while she prepared the salad.
"Patience is by way of being a virtue," she resumed quizzically, her pink fingers weaving among the lettuce-leaves. And then, "so they taught you that in the Army?"
"They did."
"And did you never get tired of being patient, Harry dear?"
He met the issue squarely. "You may try me as far as you like, Moira," he said quietly, "I owe you that."
She hadn't bargained for such a counter.
"Oh," she muttered, and diligently examined a doubtful lettuce leaf by the fading light of the small window, while Horton sliced scrupulously at his potato. And when the goose was safely over the flame she quickly disappeared into the studio.
He couldn't make her out. It seemed that a devil was in her, a mischievous, beautiful, tantalizing, little Irish she-devil, bent on psychological investigation. Also he had never before seen her with her hat off and he discovered that he liked her hair. It had bluish tints that precisely matched her eyes. He finished his last potato with meticulous diligence and then quickly rose and followed her into the studio where a transformation had already taken place. A table over which a white cloth had been thrown, had been drawn out near the big easel and upon it were plates, glasses, knives and forks and candles with rose-colored shades, and there was even a bowl of flowers. In the hearth fagots were crackling and warmed the cool shadows from the big north light, already violet with the falling dusk.
"Voilà, Monsieur – we are now chez nous. Is it not pleasant?"
It was, and he said so.
"You like my studio?"
"It's great. And the portrait – may I see?"
"No – it doesn't go —on sent le souffle– a French dowager who braved the Fokkers when all her family were froussards– fled in terror. She deserves immortality."
"And you – were you not afraid of the bombardments?"
"Hardly – not after all the trouble we had getting here – Horrors!" she broke off suddenly and catching him by the hand dashed for the kitchen whence came an appetizing odor – "The goose! we've forgotten the goose," she cried, and proceeded to baste it skillfully. She commended his potatoes and bade him stir them in the pan while she made the salad dressing – much oil, a little vinegar, paprika, salt in a bowl with a piece of ice at the end of a fork.
He watched her curiously with the eyes of inexperience as she brought all the various operations neatly to a focus.
"Allons! It is done," she said finally – in French. "Go thou and sit at the table and I will serve."
But he wouldn't do that and helped her to dish the dinner, bringing it in and placing it on the table.
And at last they were seated vis-à-vis, Horton with his back to the fire, the glow of which played a pretty game of hide and seek with the shadows of her face. He let her carve the goose, and she did it skillfully, while he served the vegetables. They ate and drank to each other in vin ordinaire which was all that Moira could afford – after the prodigal expenditure for the pièce de résistance. Moira, her face a little flushed, talked gayly, while the spurious husband opposite sat watching her and grinning comfortably. He couldn't remember when he had been quite so happy in his life, or quite so conscience-stricken. And so he fell silent after a while, every impulse urging confession and yet not daring it.
They took their coffee by the embers of the fire. The light from the great north window had long since expired and the mellow glow of the candles flickered softly on polished surfaces.
Suddenly Moira stopped talking and realized that as she did so silence had fallen. Her companion had sunk deep into his chair, his gaze on the gallery above, a frown tangling his forehead. She glanced at him quickly and then looked away. Something was required of him and so,
"Why have you done all this for me?" he asked gently.
She smiled and their glances met.
"Because – because – "
"Because you thought it a duty?"
"No – ," easily, "it wasn't really that. Duty is such a tiresome word. To do one's duty is to do something one does not want to do. Don't I seem to be having a good time?"
"I hope you are. I'm not likely to forget your charity – your – "
"Charity! I don't like that word."
"It is charity, Moira. I don't deserve it."
The words were casual but they seemed to illumine the path ahead, for she broke out impetuously.
"I didn't think you did – I pitied you – over there – for what you had been and almost if not quite loathed you, for the hold you seemed to have on father. I don't know what the secret was, or how much he owed you, but I know that he was miserable. I think I must have been hating you