"I will take the same," he declared.
"And to drink?"
She seemed indifferent.
"Any light wine," she answered, carelessly, "white or red."
Tavernake took up the wine list and ordered sauterne. They were
left alone in their corner for a few minutes, almost the only
occupants of the place.
"You are sure that you can afford this?" she asked, looking at
him critically. "It may cost you a sovereign or thirty
shillings."
He studied the prices on the menu.
"I can afford it quite well and I have plenty of money with me,"
he assured her, "but I do not think that it will cost more than
eighteen shillings. While we are waiting for the sole, shall we
talk? I can tell you, if you choose to hear, why I followed you
from the boardinghouse."
"I don't mind listening to you," she told him, "or I will talk
with you about anything you like. There is only one subject
which I cannot discuss; that subject is myself and my own
doings."
Tavernake was silent for a moment.
"That makes conversation a bit difficult," he remarked. She
leaned back in her chair.
"After this evening," she said, "I go out of your life as
completely and finally as though I had never existed. I have a
fancy to take my poor secrets with me. If you wish to talk, tell
me about yourself. You have gone out of your way to be kind to
me. I wonder why. It doesn't seem to be your role."
He smiled slowly. His face was fashioned upon broad lines and
the relaxing of his lips lightened it wonderfully.
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