She would be sweetness itself. But
deep in her heart she would loathe him, as only women can hate for a
failing they never forgive.
"But I have told you," he said rather wildly, "I am not idle. I do
certain things--not much, but of a degree of importance."
"You do not fight."
In Sara Lee's defense many things may be urged--her ignorance of modern
warfare; the isolation of her lack of knowledge of the language; but,
perhaps more than anything, a certain rigidity of standard that
comprehended no halfway ground. Right was right and wrong was wrong to
her in those days. Men were brave or were cowards. Henri was worthy
or unworthy. And she felt that, for all his kindness to her, he was
unworthy.
He could have set himself right with a word, at that. But his pride was
hurt. He said nothing except, when she asked if he had minded what she
said, to reply:
"I am sorry you feel as you do. I am not angry."
He went away, however, without breakfast. Sara Lee heard his car going
at its usual breakneck speed up the street, and went to the door. She
would have called him back if she could, for his eyes haunted her. But
he did not look back.
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