“It is very late, dear. I rather think you will sleep to-night, in spite
of the coffee and all.”
“Yes,” she said, “I think I will. And you, Anthony”--she caught my
hand--“I don't like to see you look so tired.”
“I shall sleep,” I replied. Then I kissed her forehead, and went into
my own room, leaving the door ajar in order that I might hear if she
called.
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--”