She must have hurt him or he would
surely have stopped to speak to her.
Perhaps already he was finding her a burden. She flushed with shame
when she remembered about the meals he had had to order for her, and
she sat up in her great bed until late, studying by candlelight such
phrases as:
"_Il y a une erreur dans la note_," and "_Garcon, quels fruits
avez-vous?_"
She tried to write to Harvey that night, but she gave it up at last.
There was too much he would not understand. She could not write frankly
without telling of Henri, and to this point everything had centered
about Henri. It all rather worried her, because there was nothing she
was ashamed of, nothing she should have had to conceal. She had yet to
learn, had Sara Lee, that many of the concealments of life are based
not on wrongdoing but on fear of misunderstanding.
So she got as far as: "_Dearest Harvey_: I am here in a hotel at
Dunkirk"--and then stopped, fairly engulfed in a wave of homesickness.
Not so much for Harvey as for familiar things--Uncle James in his chair
by the fire, with the phonograph playing "My Little Gray Home in the
West"; her own white bedroom; the sun on the red geraniums in the
dining-room window; the voices of happy children wandering home from
school.
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