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"Yes."
Hesmiled,notlookingather;itwasamockingsmile,butitwasasmileofpainandthemockerywasdirectedathimself.Shewonderedwhatmadehercertainofit;butsheknewhisfacesowellthatshewouldalwaysknowwhathefelt,eventhoughshecouldnotguesshisreasonsanylonger.Sheknewhisfaceaswell,shethought,asshekneweverylineofhisbody,asshecouldstillseeit,asshewassuddenlyawareofitunderhisclothes,afewfeetaway,inthecrowdingintimacyofthebooth.Heturnedtolookatherandsomesuddenchangeinhiseyesmadehercertainthatheknewwhatshewasthinking.Helookedawayandpickeduphisglass.
"Well—"hesaid,"toNatTaggart."
"AndtoSebastiand’Anconia?"sheasked—thenregrettedit,becauseithadsoundedlikemockery,whichshehadnotintended.
Butshesawalookofodd,brightclarityinhiseyesandheansweredfirmly,withthefaintlyproudsmileofstressinghisfirmness,"Yes—andtoSebastiand’Anconia."
Herhandtrembledalittleandshespilledafewdropsonthesquareofpaperlacethatlayonthedark,shiningplasticofthetable.Shewatchedhimemptyhisglassinasinglegesture;thebrusque,briefmovementofhishandmadeitlooklikethegestureofsomesolemnpledge.
Shethoughtsuddenlythatthiswasthefirsttimeintwelveyearsthathehadcometoherofhisownchoice.
